


Kama Seusstra

by GSJwrites



Category: Glee
Genre: Klaine, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-04 21:38:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 42,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3091181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GSJwrites/pseuds/GSJwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When erotica author Kurt Hummel follows the hot guy from the book convention party back to his hotel room, he thinks it’s simply a chance to spark his lackluster sex life. But when a scheduling change finds him sharing a speaker’s podium with his one night stand, he discovers that he has hooked up with Blaine Anderson, America’s darling of children’s literature.</p><p>Can the writer of a popular erotic serial find love with the author who has made bow ties the literary and fashion trend of children everywhere?</p><p>Kama Seusstra follows both their efforts to navigate an unlikely relationship as well as their stories: "Out at Home", an online erotic serial set in the world of professional baseball, and "The Brave Little Bow Tie", a children’s story about a bow tie trying to find his place in the world. </p><p>This is a story of sex, love and the hard choices we make to balance happiness and success.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kama Suesstra, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note before getting started...
> 
> I first got the idea for and outlined Kama Seusstra about two years ago—before some major life and career changes that landed me in the middle of the world of publishing. Had it not been for the fact that I had a half of a journal full of notes and a yen to write one more multi-chapter Klaine story before the series' finale, I probably would have set it aside permanently. After all, there's a fine line between write what you know and, well, overkill. 
> 
> But the fact of the matter was, publishing overkill or no, I kind of liked the idea for this three-stories-in-one fic, and it would have been a damn shame to not use that title. I will be posting two segments each week for the duration of S6 Glee.
> 
> Due to schedules, this fic has not gone through the usual beta process. However, my thanks to Annie, who has carved out some time to give it a read and lend me her thoughts. Thanks also to Lex, who knows my rushed spelling can get a little creative at times.
> 
> One a side note, it's been a joy writing in this community. There is so much talent and inspiration in it. And wherever the future takes us, I can honestly say that the experience of getting to know all of you is something I will carry with me always. 
> 
> My thanks, as always, for reading...

 

_**Oh, the Places You'll Go!** _

_by Dr. Seuss_

Congratulations!

Today is your day.

You're off to Great Places!

You're off and away!

You have brains in your head.

You have feet in your shoes.

You can steer yourself

any direction you choose.

You're on your own. And you know what you know.

And YOU are the guy who'll decide where to go.

You'll look up and down streets. Look 'em over with care.

About some you will say, "I don't choose to go there."

With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet,

you're too smart to go down any not-so-good street.

And you may not find any

you'll want to go down.

In that case, of course,

you'll head straight out of town.

It's opener there

in the wide open air.

Out there things can happen

and frequently do

to people as brainy

and footsy as you.

And when things start to happen,

don't worry. Don't stew.

Just go right along.

You'll start happening too.

OH!

THE PLACES YOU'LL GO!

 

* * * *

 

Almost everywhere he walked in New York, Blaine Anderson saw bow ties.

At the hotel gift shop. In store windows. Around the necks of well-tailored businessmen dining al fresco at Cipriani.

And the biggest of all, on the framed promotional poster in the hallway outside his agent's starkly modern frosted glass-and-steel office.

At times, he had to admit to himself that he was beginning to feel tethered to the stubby, colorful neckwear. He'd worn bow ties since childhood, and by the time that his peers were struggling with their first straight ties, Blaine was already well versed in the cross-loop-fold-layer-fold motion needed to tie a trim, even bow.

When he hung up his daily suit and tie world of corporate communications to stake out on his own, the colorful collection found itself shifted slowly toward the back of his closet, making appearances more on occasion than on schedule: for meetings, holidays and the occasional dressy date.

Now bow ties were back in his life, with gusto.They had undoubtedly opened unexpected doors for him, but had also bound him to a look, a style, a theme and a professional niche that wasn't a part of his original game plan.

As he stood in the reception area of The Remington Group, he stared at the wall, and the smiling, brightly-hued cartoon caricature advertising _The Brave Little Bow Tie_ , his freshman effort for Ratite Books that had, much to his surprise, become the year's must-own pre-reader book.

Dressed in jeans and a trim-tailored Oxford shirt and dark blue blazer, Blaine had foregone his signature neckwear for the day. No public appearances scheduled, he really saw no reason for playing dress-up when the only meeting on his schedule was a strategy session with his uncomfortably aggressive agent about negotiations to turn his successful children's book into a more successful series and to sort through a collection of promotional tie-in opportunities.

 _Tie-ins_.

Only the sudden appearance of the young, fashionable and very leggy receptionist shook him back to real time.

"Mr. Anderson?"

Blaine turned around sharply, startled out of his drifting thoughts.

"I'm sorry. Mr. Remington got stuck on the phone. Can I get you some coffee or tea? A latte?"

"A coffee would be great, thanks."

"You know, you could make yourself comfortable in the conference room, if you'd like."

"That's alright," Blaine said, leaning slightly to glance at the nameplate on the reception desk. "I'm kind of enjoying the company... Jenny."

She dipped her head, smiling and blushing. "Let me get you that coffee, Mr. Anderson. Cream and sugar?"

"Just black. And please, call me Blaine. Thanks, Jenny."

Blaine smiled and rolled his eyes to himself as he watched the suddenly animated receptionist dart down the hall to the break room. _Sweet girl, and maybe just a little clueless_.

The booming voice to his left caught him off guard.

"You're at it again, aren't you? Making my staff swoon? Because I'm going to be the one stuck telling her there's no hope. And then she'll just sulk around the office all day, and I'll just have to console her."

"Good morning, Rod."

"Good to see you, Blaine. Come on in."

Rod Remington's office was a museum honoring his lengthy career as the go-to agent for novelists who had made the jump from self-publishing to small bookstores, to _New York Times_ bestseller, to—in more than a handful of cases—Hollywood.

His office walls were lined with grip-and-grin photos with some of the industry's biggest names, nearly all of them his clients: the horror author whose grisly books had been converted into a series of money-making B-grade slasher-flicks; the southern newspaper columnist whose essays became the foundation for a Tony Award-winning play; the gothic romance novelist who no one thought much of—until her books parked themselves atop the bestseller lists and dared all comers to knock them from the top. There were pictures with Hollywood agents and actors, and more than a few politicians who had received generous contributions from The Remington Group.

On his desk, the one truly personal item: a photo of himself and his two young children, along with Wife Number Three.

"How are the girls, Rod? Savannah still angling to get you to move to the country?"

"Oh, she is, but that's not happening any time soon. We can keep the house, but I will always have an apartment in the city. You never know when you're going to need to get out of town, fast, and I can't do that very easily from Cold Spring. You know my schedule, Blaine. It changes on a dime, and you never know when you'll have to fly half-way cross country to track down some unknown writer so you can pull him out of obscurity."

Remington winked.

In keeping with his reputation for catching talent on its way up, Remington had signed Blaine shortly after he had self-published _The Brave Little Bow Tie._ It was an accident, really, when Remington's wife had pressured him to attend parent's day at his youngest daughter's school, and he heard one of the instructors read the tale of a bow tie's journey to self-awareness to the rapt room of kindergartners.

Mere moments after she said, "the end," he asked to see the book, clicked a quick picture of the author and artist's names and ISBN. He quickly sent the photos off to his assistant with the note, "Find me this guy."

Before long, Blaine was signed to one of the biggest agents in the business, and attached to one of the nation's leading publishing houses for children's literature. Remington and Ratite Books had done an unusual full court press of promotion as soon as the book started selling. And selling. And selling.

It was a rarity, he knew, for new authors to break through in the crowded children's market, and Blaine was still trying to catch his breath from the sudden rise from unknown novelist to the It-Writer of kiddie lit. He hadn't intended to write children's books. It wasn't his goal. He wanted to write, that was to be sure. He left an uncomfortable career in a comfortable office suite, exchanging it for occasional freelance promotions gigs to support seeing him months of writing his first novel, and then a second. But neither did much in sales, and were never picked up by a publisher. He figured he would take one more stab at it when fate intervened.

It had started simply enough, a good night story for a high school friend's young daughter after a dinner of pizza and gossip. Blaine had never figured Sam for the fatherly type, not until he saw his friend transform his life to raise his daughter.

Four years after Elle's birth, Sam Evan's wife hit the road with a bass player for an indie tribute band, and Sam committed himself to life as a single parent. A graphic artist, he negotiated to work from home, devoting himself to raising their daughter, a bright and gregarious little girl with green eyes like her mother's, so vivid and alert they seemed to dance.

Blaine had gone to Sam's apartment straight from a meeting, and Elle was captivated by his bow tie, a black silk with tiny pink and purple bow ties woven into the fabric. She climbed into Blaine's lap to play with it, touch it, and giggle until Blaine loosened it, removed it from his collar and gently tied it around Elle's neck.

"Bo," she said, reaching down to feel the loosely tied silk.

"Yes, it's a bow tie," Blaine said.

"No, he's Bo. His name's Bo."

Accessory became goodnight story, and goodnight story became a Crayola masterpiece attached by a magnet to the side of the refrigerator. Before long, Sam had drawn a digital Bo and, at Elle's insistence, framed and hung it on her wall.

The rest was inevitable.

Blaine soon had the framework of a children's story and Sam began work on variations of a necktie universe: a staid collegiate necktie, a black bat-winged bow tie, a crimson cravat. Their friendship had gone back years, and seen girlfriends, boyfriends and even a spouse come and go, but they had ever expected to wind up as business partners.

Blaine had once set his sights on writing the Great American Novel. He would have settled for writing popular fiction with a modest audience, enough to pay the rent. But before he knew it, Blaine Anderson—previously committed only to putting a dent in the single gay population of Chicago—was the voice of the American kindergartner.

And his New York agent was looking to take it further, to product tie-ins and network interviews. And, of course, to a multi-book deal.

"So, Blaine, I have just paved a road for you that's going to pay for a very comfortable lifestyle for the rest of your life—if you play your cards right," Remington said. "First things first. We've got you booked at BEA, and we've got the team pitching interviews while you're in town that week. We're looking for features, profiles. Preferably network. _The Today Show's_ planning an author week, and we think that's a slam dunk. And the _Times_. And we're working on an angle for the _Journal_. We're tinkering with ‘the hot tot market.’"

Blaine nodded.

"I don't think you need coaching, but I'd like to schedule a session with a media trainer, just to be safe," Remington said.

"Safe?"

"The downside of pitching a profile is they want more. And by more, I mean gay, single and children's books."

"Why should that matter? There are other gay children's authors out there, Rod."

"It _shouldn't_ matter, but plan for all contingencies. I want to make sure that at the end of the day, if someone tries to go anywhere other than warm and fuzzy, they leave feeling like they've wasted their time."

Blaine nodded again. "Okay."

"And we're going to want to make sure Sam's in town."

"He's planning on it."

"Fair enough. So we'll schedule training the week before, and you should plan on a full week of media, and meetings, and a few cocktail parties to meet with distributors. There will be some West Coasters out, and we'll be meeting with them to discuss the show."

"The show? It's happening?"

"It will be by the end of BEA, if I have anything to say about it. Soon enough, we'll all be waking up to The Adventures of Bo the Tie every Saturday morning, or maybe taking our kids to see Bo at a matinee."

"I have a hard time seeing this as a movie, Rod. It's a fucking bow tie."

"Never limit yourself, my friend. If they can make movies about space trash haulers and pickup trucks, they can make one about Bo the Tie. Besides, you've got a jump start on this—Bo's a part of the pre-reader zeitgeist."

"Kindergarten zeitgeist? Please."

"I'm not kidding. _The Brave Little Bow Tie_ is well on its way to becoming an institution. Just wait."

"But I don't even have a second book out yet," Blaine said.

"Doesn't matter," Remington shot back, pulling out a file and thumbing through it haphazardly. "Now, let's get down to business: _plush toys_."

"Plush toys?"

"Plush toys. We've got interest from Toy Lab and possibly Mondo. We've worked the numbers, and it makes sense. Maybe we'll do a package run for Costco."

"Costco."

"That's item number two—we've locked up the big box distribution. The numbers work, even if our per unit price is down. And if we package the Bo plush toy with it? Costco loves that shit."

"It's a bow tie, Rod—not exactly a typical plush toy," Blaine said.

"Yes, it's a bow tie. A cute, smiling bow tie that little kids go apeshit for. They'll want the plush toy, maybe even an action figure."

"I don't think that's our demographic."

"Fine, but that reminds me..." Rod reached for his smartphone and started dictating a message. "Carly, be sure to reach out to McDonald's. This could be Happy Meal material."

"Yes, Blaine, it's a bow tie — _a moneymaking bow tie that will finance you well into your retirement to the Hamptons._ Which brings me to item number three: Brooks Brothers. They want you. They want you _bad_."

"Excuse me?"

"We pitched a father-son line of bow ties tied in to the book. Think about it. Classics, seasonals, paisleys. Maybe that bow tie with bow ties on it—with Bo on it. They loved the idea. They're also planning a promotion featuring artists on the rise. We sign the bow tie deal, you'll be a sure thing for the campaign. Better practice that Blue Steel, Blaine."

"But I don't have a kid."

"You got a nephew?"

"Nope."

"Don't worry. We'll figure something out. Maybe you can join the Big Brothers."

Blaine could do little more than absorb it, raise his eyebrows a bit, and stay cautiously mute.

For the next two hours, they reviewed details of each proposal, making counter offers on some, rejecting others outright and accepting others that toed the line between pure promotion and a logical extension of character and brand.

When all was said and done, Blaine stifled the grimace that had been bubbling up for over an hour. He'd recover over drinks later.

"I guess the numbers make sense," he said.

"You bet your ass they do," Remington said. "Blaine, your life is about to change."

 

* * * *


	2. Kama Seusstra, Part Two

Keys could be such elusive little suckers.

Check that.

The _right_ key was elusive, the one that would fit into that keyhole and open the door to a cold drink, a soft couch and privacy. Blessed privacy.

If only he could fit that damned key in the...

"Gotcha!"

Kurt fumbled until he found the key that finally worked, clicking over the deadbolt lock that opened the only slightly sticky door to his Hell's Kitchen apartment. The fifth-floor walkup hadn't looked like much to start, but neither had he, he thought with pride. Nothing that a little time, TLC, renovation and income couldn't cure.

The apartment had started out as an 850-square-foot studio fixer-upper—with roof rights—in the shadow of the Theater District and within stumbling distance of bars, restaurants and clubs. It was a bit of a mess to start, but it was a good deal and it had endless potential.

Just like he did. 

The apartment got paint and stainless steel appliances. Kurt Hummel got a great trainer and skinny jeans.

When the blog took off and became a monetized serial—became a thing, and a profitable thing at that—it happily coincided with his next-door neighbor deciding to sell. And Kurt had the money to buy, and the resources to remodel his home—and to a lesser degree, his life.

He had never expected porn to pay the bills, but that it did, and then-some. It had started as a lark, a bet between friends to see who could write the hottest sex scene. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, he wrote a short story set in the world of professional sports. Or, more accurately, set in the locker room—roughly ten thousand words of after-hours shenanigans between minor league baseball players. He posted the story in an online blog, his friends paid up their wagers and the readers discovered it—rapidly and inexplicably.

Okay, maybe not inexplicably.

Kurt knew he had a way with words, and had always planned to at least make part of a living using them. What he did not realize until that moment he wrote that first blow job at the College World Series was that he had a knack for writing gay sex.

That adage "write what you know?" _Total bullshit,_ at least if you factored in how little Kurt Hummel had gotten in the past year.

It wasn't long before he tried selling short stories on Amazon. The price per-piece didn't seem like much—between 99 cents and $1.99 per story, with the online retailer claiming and enormous chunk of the proceeds. But the readers came, and bought, in droves. It wasn't long before steamy short stories had become a six-figure career, and both his writing and his time had become more and more valuable—especially his time.

And _everyone_ seemed to want a piece of that lately.

 _His readers_. He would never fault them. They had lifted him on to their volatile shoulders and hoisted him to a place where he wasn't simply earning a living, but helping to define a genre that the media and general public hadn't seemed quite ready to embrace, but started to take notice when they saw his sales numbers. But his readers were also a fickle and demanding lot, and he knew what awaited him as he snapped open his MacBook and prepared to settle in for a couple of hours of social media maintenance, if he could keep his eyes open. _Why this? Why that? How could you...? No, just no._ He would sort through it, answer what he could, delete the truly crazy.

Kurt had learned his lessons early. Do not provoke. You can leave food for the bear, but don't ever get close enough to poke it. Bravery only gets you bitten.

 _His friends_. He loved them, was devoted to them, really. But they needed to lay off the Yenta business and let him lead his own life for a change. The set-ups and favors needed to stop, and he was going to make that happen. Soon. Sure, it had been a while since he'd been in a relationship. It had been a while since he'd gotten laid, for god's sake.

The irony did not escape him.

But he wasn't into hookups. He wasn't a one-night stand kind of guy, even if his characters were.

 _His management_. He swore he'd try to handle this career on his own for as long as he could, and that period expired about a year ago. Like the apartment's remodel, the more his career took off, the more he had to turn over the reins to someone else. He finally acquiesced and retained an agent—a woman who fit every pushy, arrogant, vile stereotype of her business. But she had also shown him that this spark of a sidelinecould become a wildly successful career, and she was hell-bent on seeing him graduate from popular writer to brand name, for better or for worse.

But social media was another matter. The readers—god, he still felt awkward calling them fans—built his career, and he did not want to turn over the Twitter, Facebook and blog to some publicist. They were supposed to be his words, right? And no one put words in Kurt Hummel's mouth.

 _No one_.

The connection with fans was important to him, even if it meant forcing his eyes open after a vodka-fueled night ostensibly scheduled in the name of networking with the people who could lift his career to yet another rung—to traditional print, maybe even to a world of scripts and stages and actors with tight schedules and even tighter asses.

He shook his head. No, he would not let himself drift off to _that_ place.

There were times, oh there were times when he wanted to slap the readers and handlers and people with a collective agenda for his future upside their collective head; when he wanted to lecture them, taunt them, cajole them, to tell them to put away the laptop/tablet/smartphone and get off the couch and get a fucking life.

And stay the hell out of his.

Why should they care who he's dating, or whether he was dating, or who he's fucking or being fucked by? Or, for that matter, the fact that he hadn't fucked at all since his career took off. He didn't make his private life public, not like some writers who he felt took the expression "open book" to ridiculous extremes. But he did go out of his way—maybe too far—to be sure he had a personal connection with his readers. And some of them interpreted that as carte blanche to nose around more than he was comfortable with—just like his friends.

Almost every time he opened his email, or ventured into his blog mail, or checked the tags or the texts, because inevitably, Kurt would discover that somebody—somebodies—had speculated, theorized or simply overstepped the boundaries of good taste and privacy.

 _Good taste_.

He laughed, stepping to his desk, grabbing his glasses and snapping open the laptop that served as his go-everywhere office, watching it blink to life.

When _Out at Home_ first became a digital bookstore sensation, his life changed. And if he wanted to make a career of it—and he did—he had to make accommodations. From the moment he wrote his first description of a cock, the first time hands fumbled and stomachs swirled and mouths gaped open for breath, he knew that he had learned something new about himself, about skills previously undiscovered, that would set his life on a new trajectory. So he answered their questions, even some of the invasive ones. Because when you make a living getting people off with your words, you learn to expect that.

Kurt pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose and leaned in to his monitor. Just a quick peek.

_147 new messages._

Nope. Not without another drink.

He walked to the kitchen, grabbed a glass and opened the liquor cabinet. Maybe not. He'd had enough Ketel One for one night, blissfully on someone else's tab. He filled the glass with tap water. That's when he saw the blinking light of the answering machine.

With the push of a button, a raging voice screamed at him from the speaker in the form of his agent, Santana Lopez.

A goddess with contacts and a demon with ambition, Santana had embraced Kurt's career early on, singing his praises to talk shows and critics, while damning him with the faint praise normally reserved for an older sibling.

" _¡_ _Eh, mi_ _encantadora_ _!_ Where the hell are you? You just left 30 minutes ago—why the hell is your voicemail full on your cell?"

 _BEEEEEEEEEEEEP_.

The phone cut off. Moments later, she was back, a second call.

"Trust me, sweetheart, you're going to want to return my calls when you hear what I've got lined up for you. Be prepared to go old school and charm the pants off the publishing houses, because you're going to be a featured speaker at BEA, my man."

"Oh, and have you been on camera before? Tell me we don't need to media train you. Because that satellite radio book club wants to chat. It seems porn is the new YA, and you're about to be its poster child. The poster child of porn!"

She laughed at her own joke. 

"Now, get your ass out of bed and call me back."

 

 * * * *


	3. The Brave Little Bow Tie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each week, I'll be posting both an update to the Kama Seusstra story and a segment from Blaine's children's book, "The Brave Little Bow Tie" and Kurt's serial, "Out at Home". I have never attempted kiddie lit before, so this is a real experience...
> 
> My thanks as always to iconicklaine for giving this a much-needed advance read.

 

Bo the Tie was cheery by design.

He felt it in his heart. He was made to make the world sparkle and shine.

Just look at his colors, so red, white and bright! And his stubby wings that looked so ready for flight.

Yes, Bo knew his place in this world—around Father's neck, at holiday parties where Father would joke and sing and laugh, all so very hardy.

But with the holidays ended, Bo found a new home—at the back of the closet, behind silk and wool, behind stripes and paisleys and dots, all so somber, so long and so straight.

For the other days of the year, when Father left home with a serious gait, ties shuffled and shoved to reach the front where Father would find them, wear them, and grunt.

Bo waited his turn and was pushed to the back.

"What are you doing little tie? You don't belong here!" harrumphed Windsor, a dark crimson stripe. "You're not cut out for the job at the front."

Bo fell to the back of the rack until one day the closet opened wide, by Mother this time, not Father. He sighed.

Mother looked through the clothes, from hangar to hangar. She would pull out a shirt, a sweater, or pants and set them aside, to a bag marked "Charity Dance."

She arrived at the ties, and searched back to front. Bo straightened up and shown off brightly.

"This one will do," Mother said, picking Bo, and placed him in the bag along with the other clothes made ready to go.

"At last!" Bo thought, "An adventure for me!"

A little hand reached in the bag and pulled him back out. "Mommy!" he said. "What is this? It looks so funny and bright."

"It's a bow tie," she said. "Come here, and I'll show you how to tie it—you'll be quite a sight!"

"On Theodore!" The Boy cheered, and held up his teddy. "Can he wear the bow tie?"

"Of course, my love."

As simple as that, Bo had a new home in The Boy's room, around a bear's tiny neck, to bring brightness to playtime, wherever they roamed.


	4. Kama Seusstra, Part Three

Blaine stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window in his suite at the starkly modern Standard Hotel, splitting his time between watching the High Line below and checking the mirror.

In one direction, he saw freedom: walkers, joggers, and tourists enjoying the sunny morning along the greenbelt, which burrowed under the hotel. In the other, he saw an image of himself that his promotional team was anxious to share with the world—tailored, pulled together, safely wrapped in bright sweaters and coordinated bow ties.

He had initially resisted his publicist's insistence that he be "styled" for a series of interviews and meetings kicking off Book Week in New York. He knew he shouldn't complain, not really. The stylist, a designer-turned-fashion consultant, had decent taste—with the exception of the slacks that were too-striped and too tight in the wrong places, even by Blaine's slim-fit-everything look. But he felt that he did a perfectly fine job dressing himself _thankyouverymuch,_ and even his most casual clothes typically looked more consciously coordinated than that of most of his friends.

He certainly looked more fashionable than Sam, who apparently did not require the assistance of a _Styling Professional,_ and had stretched out on the chaise in the corner, toying with a fruit basket from Ratite and checking out the female joggers as they disappeared beneath the hotel.

"Damn, they really took care of you. My room's good, but this is ridiculous," Sam said.

Blaine rolled his eyes. "You could say that. How'd you get away with wearing jeans?"

"The advantage of being the sidekick. You going to eat this?"

Blaine had shifted his focus back to the rack of borrowed clothes, the result of a couple of hours at Rod's office, trying on too-long pants and blazers that required significant nip/tuck. The stylist encouraged him to up his game, playing up his _natural assets_ with slender tailoring that clung to his hips and traced his slim waistline in a variety of colors—some neutral to appease Blaine, others in bright hues of red and green and teal that she asked him to "at least consider." Apparently, Crayola-hued pants were all the rage for children's book author fashion.

The ties would be the signature piece of each ensemble—stripes, paisleys, dark classics and patterns. And though he had worn them since childhood, Blaine was beginning to feel that they were just a bit gimmicky. "How about a couple of traditional neck ties?" he had asked. "Or going without a tie altogether?"

The answer, both from publicist and stylist, was an unequivocal "No." Rod's orders, they said.

Blaine would have been perfectly happy in a good pair of Levi's. And they would have done an equally good job showing off his ass, if that was the stylist's intention.

He trusted his instincts, and opted for a spring palette of trim tailored khaki slacks paired with a soft blue oxford and a bright green and white color-blocked sweater vest, and accented with a blue and green striped batwing bow tie and a subtle dark blue linen blazer that had been tailored within an inch of its life.

_Casual, but professional._

"Blaine?"

"Huh?"

"Fruit Basket?"

"Oh yeah. Um, no thanks."

"Something on your mind, big guy?" Sam asked, popping a grape in his mouth.

Blaine inspected himself from all angles, not that he expected it to be an issue for his "all business, all the time" day that was about to begin. But just in case, he looked. Because you never know when someone's going to check you out.

"Do I look like a children's book author?"

"The children's book author I know only wears pants that tight when he's looking to get lucky."

Blaine nodded, then slowly allowed himself to grin.

* * * *

 

Shortly after he hit Rockefeller Center, Blaine's hair had been gelled within an inch of its life, and a makeup artist had airbrushed his face to unnatural perfection.

"Those curls take on a life of their own in this humidity, don't they?" she said.

Blaine turned his head and assessed the results. "Isn't it a bit... much? Don't get me wrong. I get it. I use gel, but is all this necessary?"

"Better to glue it down than look like Eraserhead," she said.

Blaine grimaced at his reflection. "It seems like a lot of makeup."

"Blame high def," she said. "It's a necessary evil. And don't worry—it'll wash out of the shirt."

Blaine strained to look more closely in the mirror, when Connie, his handler for the day and a senior publicist at The Remington Group, touched him on the shoulder.

"We have spares in the car," Connie whispered. "You look great."

With a sudden rap on the door, a young woman wearing jeans, a T-shirt and a headset entered the Green Room, scarcely taking the time to lift her eyes from her clipboard. "Mr. Anderson? You'll be on in a few minutes. I'm Jenna and I'll be running through a few things with you before your segment with Mark."

It was, as she described, a "pre-interview," where she told him the order of items before his interview—news, a cutaway promo, three minutes of commercials and back—and ran through some sample questions.

"So we're celebrating Book Week, and each day we're featuring prominent authors from different genres. Of course, today is children's literature and, well, you. We'd like you to talk about your book, and how you got the idea about bow ties, and what the message is that children should take from it."

"Well, it's about embracing your own true..."

"Oh, not here, not with me. Answer it when you're live. I'll take you to the set on the next break. Let's get you mic'd up. If you'll just drop this wire down your shirt..."

In a manner a little too efficient to be comfortable, Jenna attached a lavaliere microphone to Blaine's shirt placket, then pulled the wire so it could connect to the wireless remote pack she had attached to the waistband of his slacks.

 _This might be the most action I get all week_.

Nowhere in the pre-interview did the production assistant raise the subject of Blaine's private life, but that was simply a warm-up. Minutes later, seated comfortably on a side set, Blaine answered all the questions the show had prepared him for—and a few it hadn't. He could sense it was coming, the moment that host Mark Ramos, a veteran of network news who made his name in a series of gotcha interviews, scooted forward in his chair.

"Your book has been a big hit, but it's not without its critics," Ramos said, inching toward Blaine. "The leaders of Families for American Values have tried to have the book banned from preschools."

"So I hear," Blaine said, keeping his tone even.

The anchor waited for more, but that's all Blaine would offer.

He was ready, prepared in an intensive, daylong media training session just days before, when Rod's hired gun fired question after inappropriate question Blaine's way, trying to get him to stray from his talking points, to crack, to lash out, to offer more in response than was truly necessary.

"Some conservative groups criticize your book as _agenda-driven,_ " Ramos said.

"If the agenda is knowing and accepting yourself, then yes, it is," Blaine said. "Like all good children's fiction, Bo is intended to deliver a message—in this case, one of personal growth—as well as being a colorful character," Blaine said, making friendly eye contact, not missing a beat.

"They say it's a gay agenda.”

"I don't think ties have a sexual preference," Blaine said.

Ramos was clearly fishing, waiting for Blaine to take the bait. But Blaine simply out-waited him, leaving an audio gap the host was left to fill for himself. He could either move on to the next subject, or ask the question he had hoped Blaine would answer without prompting and run the risk of looking like a bully.

As the media trainer had planned, Ramos opted for the former, and returned to the safe ground of the warm-up questions.

"What do you hope children will take away from your story?"

Blaine smiled. Victory was at hand, at least for his first interview of a long day.

"That life is an adventure of self-discovery, and you should never fear trying on different looks on your journey. The goal is to find the one that fits, and embrace it, and be true to who you are."

With that, the anchor caved.

"And will there be more bow ties in our future?" Ramos said, offering up one final softball.

Blaine leaned back and grinned.

"Oh, I certainly hope so."

 

* * * *

 

From the morning show set, he went on to repeat his performance on a morning gabfest—a syndicated network talk show designed to be a gossipy coffee klatch. Then it was on to NPR, where he recorded a segment for a new talk show the balanced the line between politics and pop culture.

After the morning rounds of studio interviews, the team from Ratite set up shop for him near the halls of the crowded Javits Center, welcoming print reporters and bloggers on an increasingly tight schedule.

From their suite overlooking the main convention hall, he met with a reporter for _The Wall Street Journal_ to discuss publishing trends in children's literature, chatted briefly with a _USA Today_ entertainment writer and spoke at length with a book editor for _The New York Times_. Then, one last camera: a friendly interview, scheduled by the convention to collect a series of brief promotional interviews with presenters to be broadcast in the exhibit hall.

Another touch-up from the stylist—Blaine had insisted on washing off the airbrushed makeup—and change of shirt, and Blaine was seated again for afternoon appointments with distributors and business partners.

First on the itinerary, and more than enough meeting for one day, they met with the publishing team. Though the contract extension was by now a fait accompli—Rod had been negotiating for weeks over Blaine's advance for books two and three, and as such, the meeting was little more than the formality of a signing ceremony before they announced the deal the next morning, right before Blaine's panel.

Next up, Brooks Brothers, for the promotional concept that would not die.

Blaine truly wasn't sure he was comfortable with this concept at first. It had sounded a bit kitsch, particularly for the normally staid clothier. But Blaine had worn the brand since childhood, and Rod assured him that the company's marketing division had developed a promotion that would be sleek, subtle and profitable.

So Blaine took the meeting, and ultimately agreed in principle to a contract that would see Brooks Brothers create a short line of up to 10 father-son bow ties—perhaps with coordinating women's scarves—and give Blaine a role in a black and white ad campaign featuring "rising stars of BB style."

Blaine was whisked to the convention hall, to a VIP Lounge, where he rested up before his final appearance of the day, an evening cocktail reception for clients, bigwigs and a handful of contacts from west coast entertainment firms.

He pressed the flesh: editors, management, producers. He gave them all his undivided attention until the moment when he sensed a break in the line, a shift in attention. Then he stripped off the jacket and lined up at the bar to finally, blissfully, replace club soda with vodka. 

Excusing himself from a circle of executives, Rod made his way to Blaine's spot in line at the bar. He leaned in and whispered, "Try not to get too drunk."

"What makes you think I'd do that?" Blaine said, unable to mask a certain mirth from the knowledge that he would be done with this soon.

"I can see you hitting the wall," Rod said, his voice unusually hushed. "And I know that look. I know it's been a long day, Blaine, but it's a chance to get a lot done in very little time."

"I'm just catching my second wind, Rod," Blaine said, stepping closer to the bar.

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Hey, see this glass? It's been nothing but club soda posing as vodka all night. I think I've earned the real thing. Let me make one decision for myself today, okay?"

Rod shrugged. "Just take it easy, alright? You've got a big day tomorrow."

"Got it. Big day. Big deals. Big speech. Say the right things, but say nothing. Or at least to the right people. See? My training, hard at work. Now I think I've earned something to help me unwind."

Blaine finally had his fill, and saddled up to the hosted bar, ordering the drink he'd been craving since roughly two p.m.

 

* * * *

 


	5. Out At Home, Episode One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kama Seusstra is three stories: The main story about Kurt and Blaine, two authors who have a one-night stand at Book Expo America, and their respective books: Blaine's children's book, "The Brave Little Bow Tie," and Kurt's erotic serial set in the world of professional baseball, "Out at Home". Each week I will post one chapter of Kama Seusstra and another segment from either TBLBT or OAH. This week is the first segment of Out at Home.

**Out at Home**

**by Kurt Hummel**

 

Andre Jones pulled his mitt to his face and rotated the ball in his pitching hand until his manicured nails solidly gripped its seams. He stared down the batter... and froze.

"Time!" Catcher Alex Bell ripped off his mask and marched to the mound.

"What's up? Why're you shaking me off?"

"I, um... Sorry. I mixed the signals," Andre said.

At six-foot-four, 225 pounds, with a dizzying 1.97 earned run average for the Stanford Cardinal, Andre Jones was every bit the intimidating presence the program for the College World Series and _Sports Illustrated_ said he would be—right up until the point where Florida State slugger Johnny Corello stepped up to the plate. 

Then, nothing.

"Don't let him get in your kitchen," Alex said. "Just stare him down, then high and tight. Give him the heat." He took the ball, held it up at eye level for Andre, then slapped it back in the pitcher's glove and trotted back to the batter's box.

 _Stare him down._ That was just the problem. This wasn't the first time Andre had stared down the star catcher for the defending College World Series champs.

The last time was roughly 48 hours ago in an Omaha hotel room as Johnny Corello was balls-deep in Andre Jones' ass.

*  * * 

They'd gone to some honky-tonk bar—not exactly Andre's taste in nightlife, but his teammates had egged him on and convinced him to go out for a night on the town, or what passed for a town, before curfew.

He drank more than he should have. He was only going to have one beer, maybe two, and then get to the team hotel early.

The bar was loaded with players from other teams in the tournament and more than a few sports groupies, and half his teammates paired off with local girls and fans who had tagged along from Palo Alto. Andre hung out at the end of the bar, nursing his second beer, considering   a third, occasionally looking over to the dance floor and watching most of his infield making damn fools of themselves.

Then he saw him, standing the in the center of a circle of teammates, the player he'd been studying for weeks, watching film, talking to Atlantic Coast Conference pitchers who'd already faced him and his .365 batting average during conference play.

Johnny Corello. He was surprisingly tall for a catcher and thick—built like a wall—with broad shoulders and thighs that looked like tree trunks.

His nickname was The Hot Sicilian, and Andre could see why.

Look past the thick muscles and thicker ass—more a football physique than baseball—and Johnny Corello resembled a leading man, with wavy black hair and eyes the color of midnight.

Andre couldn't help but stare, right up until the point where Johnny Corello glanced up from his drink and caught him looking.

Twenty minutes later, they were drinking shots together at the bar, away from their friends. Twenty minutes after that, they were on the dance floor, ostensibly with two local girls, but grazing each other just often enough for both to know better. And a half hour after that, Johnny Corello had Andre backed up against the inside of a bathroom stall, fisting his dick like a champ.

They snuck out separately, both making excuses to their teammates that they needed to go back to their hotel and study video.

Not five minutes after Andre set the _Do Not Disturb_ card on his hotel room door handle—an established signal both Andre and his road trip roommate respected—there was a soft knock.

Andre looked through the peephole to see Johnny looking up and down the hall, raking his fingers through his thick hair.

He opened the door, leaning against the frame.

"Hello again."

Johnny swept into the room, grabbing Andre around the waist with one hand and closing the door with the other. He turned Andre, pushing his back against the door, pressing their bodies together, and surged in for a brutal kiss.

Johnny may have been shorter than Andre, but he put his size and strength to full advantage, wedging his thigh between Andre's legs and pinning his hands at shoulder height. He left leverage for Andre to move only along his hips, which Andre ground hard into Johnny's thigh.

Johnny pulled back only briefly, just long enough to check, "This okay?" between panting breaths. "Your pitching arm...?"

Andre could only nod. _God, yes._

Johnny Corello was known for his unusual stance behind the plate—his deep, deep crouch as he signaled pitches. It was a wonder how a man of six feet—his stats said six-foot-two, but Andre now knew better—could get so low to the ground.

And Johnny was more than willing to demonstrate his flexibility.

He pulled himself off Andre's mouth and ran his hands down his solid torso, tugging at buttons along the way. Then he knelt, resting his ass on his heels. He looked up at Andre, his hands lingering at his hips until Andre simply closed his eyes.

"Yes."

Johnny buried his face in Andre's hip, kissing along the line of his strained cock. Andre had been stiff since he left the club, and the instant heat of the short hotel room make out had only stressed him more. With Johnny's hands now grabbing his ass and his lips wrapped around his still-clothed dick, Andre was nearing his breaking point.

He reached for his belt, but Johnny slapped his hand away.

"That's my job."

And Johnny's hands were on him, scrapping at his belt and palming his dick until fingers latched on to Andre's zipper. In moments, Johnny had Andre's jeans pulled down around his upper thighs for the second time that night.

Johnny couldn't be bothered with subtlety. And teasing, apparently, was for wimps.

If Johnny Corello's grip had left Andre breathless an hour ago, his lips, tongue and throat nearly caused him cardiac arrest. For Johnny Corello was nothing if not devoted to his craft.

As soon as he had sprung Andre's cock from the tight confines of his jeans, Johnny's large hand was on it. With a quick a few quick strokes and a twist, he settled at its root. He thumbed firmly at the slit, smearing the head with precome.

Andre's instincts told him to lean back, close his eyes his enjoy the ride, but he was too caught up by the sight of Johnny Corello lifting his hand to his mouth and sucking the clear fluid off his own thumb. Johnny looked up, grinned, and then ran his tongue from head to balls and back again.

Andre knew what Johnny Corello could do with his hands, whether picking off a man stealing second or fluidly jacking him off. But he never could have dreamed what Johnny could do with his mouth.

And he could do a hell of a lot.

Johnny's tongue was stiff and determined, prodding firmly at the tip, lapping at the dribble of precome until Johnny sucked the head of Andre's dick into his mouth.

The only word that Andre could form escaped on an exhale. " _Shit_."

Johnny didn't linger, didn't tease, didn't bother to waste his time on just one section of Andre's erection. He took him deep, fast, swallowing around the pitcher's cock on his way down, and humming as he pulled up—over and over again.

It was dizzying. Andre could feel his gut tighten, his balls constrict, and he was well past the point of control. Andre knew this much: He didn't want it over, not yet. So this blowjob, _this gift_ , had to stop—now.

"I'm gonna come. Johnny, gonna come. _Fuck_."

Johnny looked up, Andre's dick still deep in his throat, and winked. He pulled off slowly, his tongue tracing every vein along its determined path and tipping Andre over the brink. Andre's chest pounded. His mind thrummed, then went blank.

"You still with me?"

Andre opened his eyes to the sight of Johnny brushing come off his cheek with one hand. The other was occupied tracing smooth circles along Andre's upper thigh.

"You went kind of quiet on me for a minute there," Johnny said.

Andre wasn't quiet ready to come down from this high, but exhaled slowly, trying to bring his breathing back under control. He toed off one shoe, then the other.

"Take off my jeans," he said.

Johnny Corello smiled, and like any good catcher, followed his pitcher's instructions.

It was a race to the mattress, both men shedding the rest of their clothes along the way.

"Let me," Andre said, on his knees, reaching for Johnny's belt. He unlatched the buckle and used the open belt to pull Johnny on top of him, where they both kicked at his pants until they landed in a heap at the foot of the bed.

"Wait. Need those," Johnny said. "Rear pocket. Wallet. Condom."

He climbed off Andre and grabbed his pants, fishing the packet out of his wallet. "Tell me you've got lube. Otherwise, it's spit."

"Dop bag. Bathroom."

Johnny rolled off the bed, rushed around the corner to the bathroom and emerged moments later with two small packets in his hand.

"You're fast," Andre said.

"I'm motivated," Johnny replied, tearing the lube packet open with his teeth. "Roll over."

As aggressive as Johnny had started the night—in the club, at the door—it was as if he had shifted gears, slowing his movements, opening Andre up, gently and methodically working his fingers inside, eliciting breathy, heated sounds in response.

One, an exhale. Two, a sigh. Three, a moan, and a breathless demand for more.

Johnny rolled on the condom and coated it with the remaining lube. He rose to his knees and wrapped an arm around Andre's chest, pulling him up to his hands and knees as Johnny bowed his head down to meet Andre's spine, leaving a heated trail of kisses as he positioned himself behind Andre's body.

Andre could feel the rapid beat of Johnny's heart, erratic and out of sync with his own, as his body slowly opened itself up to him.

The incursion was slow, steady, deliberate. When Johnny bottomed out, he stopped, kissed Andre behind the ear, and lingered.

"Say when."

Andre opened his eyes and drew a deep breath. "Move. Just move," he said, gritting out the words.

And Johnny pulled back, and nearly out, before slamming back into his body.

"Like that?" he said, his a voice a tease.

"More."

Johnny built to a steady pace, his breath hot on Andre's ear, mirroring his movement: controlled to start, but growing increasingly erratic.

"Oh, shit. Wanna see you. Turn over for me." He pulled out and propped himself up far enough for Andre to turn over and wrap his legs around Johnny's thighs. Johnny wrapped his hand around Andre's upper thigh, prying it loose, lifting Andre's leg until it rested on his shoulder.

"Like this," Johnny said. He held Andre's hips still as he lined up again, pulling them together.

Andre nodded, and reached for Johnny. He ran his fingers threw the dark thatch of hair lacing the catcher's chest. "Want your hand."

Johnny glanced down. “Someone recovers fast.”

“Want. Your. Hand.”

Andre’s command was met with a grin. “Like this?” Johnny said, reaching between them.

With Andre's cock in hand, Johnny gained force with each thrust, bottoming out and pulling back time and again, adjusting his angle slightly with each push.

"Fuck, right there." Andre shut his eyes and gripped the sheets—panting, huffing a mantra of "fuck, fuck, fuck" with each stroke.

"Open your eyes. I want you to see."

Andre usually thought of this build as a solitary thing, something so internal that he shut his thoughts to everything but the feeling of his impending release. But he opened his eyes, looked up and saw Johnny Corello's eyes fixed on his face, a look so deep, so connected that he hardly felt like the stranger Andre knew him to be.

He stroked Andre in a firm, fluid motion with one hand, and reached for his face with the other, touching his check, his jaw, his lower lip. "You almost there?" he asked. "Faster?"

"Good. Just... there."

Andre surrendered to it—to the build, to the tightening sensation in his gut, to the unwavering eyes locked on his own, to the strong hand determined to make him come. He tightened his leg's grip on Johnny's waist and felt his body begin to shudder, spilling across Johnny's stomach and hand.

With a deep groan, Johnny Corello threw himself into Andre, chasing his own release. He picked up his pace, slapping their bodies together until he came with a groan, shaking in Andre's arms.

As his pulsing stilled, Johnny began to untangle himself—from inside Andre, from his limbs, sitting up in bed. But Andre reached for him, and pulled him back into the sheets, wrapping their bodies together into a contented knot.

He didn't know how long it had been, but Andre eventually felt the bed shift, the body roll out from under his arm. He craned his head to look at the clock: 2:43 a.m.

In the glow of the city lights beyond the hotel window, he could make out Johnny at the end of the bed, dressed and watching him.

"I have to go," he said quietly. He took a step toward Andre, briefly taking his hand, then turned and walked to the door. Reaching for the handle, he looked back at the empty space on the mattress, then opened the door, and left.

*  * *

Alex could tell him to tune it out all he wanted. Fuck Alex. Andre could still feel Johnny Corello, could feel him to his core, every time he wound up for a pitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks as always to Annie (iconicklaine), who has been giving Kama Seusstra the once-over.


	6. Kama Seusstra, Part Four

Kurt had never been a fan the cocktail party circuit.

Not that he wasn’t a fan of cocktails. Those he would drink, happily, but he’d rather do it at a bar, or at a friend’s apartment, or somewhere that he didn’t have to be _on_ , or at least on display.

This was not one of those occasions. Santana had scored an invitation to one of the big parties at BEA, a cocktail soiree sponsored by a major publishing house. The event was a coming out party for a handful of new authors they were promoting—and investing in heavily. But it was also a way to have quick meets with agents and clients who were less of a priority this particular conference season, and Santana intended to show off her find, the online erotica writer with legions of devoted fans who was on the cusp of his break-through moment. But after a quick shot of _lordknowswhat_ and two exchanges of business cards, she had put business behind her and turned her attention to the Barbie-esque blonde across the room, the one with the aggressively unbuttoned silk blouse and the abundant décolletage.

Tired of glad-handing, Kurt had settled alone at a cocktail round far from the action, considering whether to cozy up to the bar for another Sea Breeze or abandon both Santana and the party for sweat pants, a T-shirt and HBO on the comfort of his couch—until he found a reason to stay.

It seemed that the open bar was its own attraction. Or at least it had become one when a shapely ass made itself at home there and hitched right, just slightly, with a shift of weight to one hip. For a good fifteen minutes now, the tight ass in the tighter chino slacks had popped right, then center, then right again as if following a rhythm known only to its owner. Kurt knew this timing for a fact, because he had been checking his watch for a sign that he could consider his evening concluded when that well-tailored backside approached the bar.

And his eyes hadn't left it since.

The front wasn't bad, either, Kurt concluded after watching the dark-haired stranger quietly stir his drink and politely acknowledge the conga line of apparent well wishers who approached him.

_Short, but oh my_. _The slender, toned build. Shoulders tapering to a trim waist. Slacks fitted just snug enough to make it clear that he was a lefty_. Kurt allowed himself a slack-jawed moment to reflect on that.

He looked over briefly to the corner where Santana was now within inches of intimacy with Malibu Barbie. That was certainly a signal that the work day was over. He looked back to the bar, back to Mr. Ass.

_Fuck business. Fuck me._

Kurt looked up to see the owner of the shapely ass looking right at him, a whisper grin on his face.

"Oh shit."

Kurt looked down sheepishly, then glanced left, and right, wondering if anyone else had caught him sizing up the stranger at the bar. He looked up again, and the man held his gaze, sipping at the near-empty glass and tilting his head to one side in what appeared to be an invitation.

_It's now or never._ Kurt willed one foot in front of the other until he stood side-by-side with Mr. Ass at the bar.

"You look like you're ready to escape," the stranger said.

"Cocktail parties..."

"Maybe if you actually had a cocktail," the man suggested. His steady stare both unnerved Kurt and held him rapt. If this were a stare down, he would lose, willingly—and sign up for a second round on the spot.

The man was right—a little more liquid anesthetic would make this easier.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

"Isn't it an open bar?" Kurt said, almost kicking himself. Something had him off his A-game, and it may very well be those eyes, the color of whiskey, now taking him in, inch-by-inch.

Mr. Ass smiled confidently, his eyes never leaving Kurt's.

"What are you drinking?"

"Vodka Cranberry," Kurt said, lying just a little, just enough to sound more sophisticated than he envisioned the drinker of a Sea Breeze to be.

Mr. Ass turned his head, nodded to the bartender. "A vodka cranberry for my friend here and another vodka soda with lime for me, please."

"To what do I owe this largesse, um...?"

"Devon," the stranger said, cutting him off. "And you seem to have lost your name tag, too."

"I'm off the clock. Nice to meet you, Devon. I'm Kurt Hu—"

"No." The stranger held up hand as if to stop that last syllable. He tossed a generous tip on the bar, then grabbed the drinks, steering Kurt back to his quiet corner. He tapped their glasses in cheers, took a sip, then shifted his body into Kurt's space at the table, resting his weight on his elbows.

"So, what brings you here?" Kurt asked.

"Books, same as you."

"Agent?"

"Nope."

"Editor?"

"Let's not talk business."

Kurt could have sworn he saw the stranger's eyes darken, his lower lip drop just a bit before he picked up his drink and took a long, slow sip.

"So, we've established that you don't like cocktail parties but you do like cocktails. What else do you like?"

_You._

"Puppies. World peace. Modern adaptations of Jane Austen. You know, the usual," Kurt said instead, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Hard to argue with any of those," Devon said. "But you know what I like?" He held up his glass. "A proper bar that doesn't water down its drinks. What do you say we go get a real drink, some place where we're not surrounded by business?"

"Devon, are you hitting on me?"

"Yes, but to be fair, you were watching me for a while."

"Was I that obvious?"

"Yes."

Maybe Kurt was just out of practice. He may have fantasized about leaving with this man; he just didn't expect it to happen, and certainly not this fast.

But he couldn't help himself.

"Where do you want to go?"

"The bar's pretty decent at my hotel."

Devon held eye contact for long moments before Kurt could find enough breath to mutter out his response.

"Okay."

* * *                   

 They rushed out of the Javits in record time. By the time they hit the sidewalk, they were engulfed in the day-end crowd of conventioneers, all with the singular purpose of finding a cab cross-town.

Kurt furrowed his brow and tried to maneuver through the crowd. "No fucking subway stops down here," he muttered.

He reached out and took Devon by the hand.

"If we go down a block and get out of this crowd, we'll have better luck."

Hand-in-hand, they set a mean pace away from the convention hall, settling in down the street. In minutes, a cab stopped.

"The Meatpacking District," Devon said as he pulled Kurt with him into the back seat. "The Standard."

"That's almost walkable," Kurt said.

"You really want to walk two-and-a-half miles right now?"

Devon’s hand grazed Kurt’s thigh. Slowly, Kurt shook his head.

"I didn't think so," Devon said. He pulled in close, breathing Kurt in, murmuring, "We couldn't do this if we were walking."

Then he kissed Kurt's neck, starting just below the ear, running his tongue to Kurt's collar line.

"That okay with you?"

Kurt scarcely got out a breathless "uh huh" before he felt the press of lips against his mouth, and an insistent tongue pressing, seeking an opening.

_Thank god for 24/7 traffic congestion._ Kurt rolled his head back to encourage the kind of amazing thing that currently involved thick lips, a warm tongue and his sensitive neck. _This is the distraction I needed: a hot guy with a willing mouth who isn't concerned about conversation._

When they reached The Standard, Devon threw the fare and a sizable tip to the cabbie and then guided Kurt hurriedly through the lobby by the elbow.

"Did you still want to go to the bar?" Devon asked.

Kurt looked briefly over to the lobby bar, a bustling hybrid of fire engine red Danish modern furnishings and Japanese Zen currently filled with a kaleidoscope of tourists, businesspeople and hipsters.

He paused before answering, long enough for an exhale, for an excuse to end this, now. But he didn't.

"Not really.”    

"Good," Devon said, his voice deeper and a bit softer than it had been earlier.

Kurt was fairly sure he would have jumped him in the elevator if it hadn't been for the businessman who slipped through the closing doors. Instead, they kept impatient hands to themselves, both uncomfortably watching the numbers count up on their way to the tenth floor. They were on each other the moment the elevator closed behind them, scrabbling at each other's clothes.

"Your room..." Kurt said, pulling off.

He allowed himself to be pulled by the hand down the hall, near its end. A deftly wielded key card opened the door to a corner studio suite overlooking the Hudson and the High Line below. Kurt stopped just inside the doorway, taking in the view, then moved toward the floor-to-ceilings windows.

"Oh god, these are the rooms where..."

A warm, solid body pulled in behind him, arms wrapping around his waist, lips on his neck. "Hmm?"

"When this hotel opened, it was a little notorious for... couples... in the windows," Kurt said.

"Where everyone could see?" Devon replied, reaching for Kurt's belt. "Scandalous."

His fingers reached down, skimming Kurt's fly. "Think we can do better?" 

Kurt shut his eyes tight, took a deep breath and tried to get his body under control.

Too late.

"Oh, fuck. Yes. Yeah, I do," he said, exhaling through the words, and scarcely recognizing the growl in his voice. He turned in Devon's arms, reaching to cup his jaw, reeling him in for a deep kiss. The next moments became a flurry of hands, lips and hips; touching, fondling, peeling themselves out of their jackets as they scrambled to undress.

"Let me," Devon murmured, pushing Kurt's hands aside, using his body to press Kurt back against the glass. He nimbly unbuttoned Kurt's vest and stripped him of the tailored Henley beneath it. Then he stopped to kiss Kurt deeply, running his hands down his chest until they rested again at his belt.

"Please," Kurt said.

Devon dropped to his knees, unbuckled Kurt's pants and burrowed his face into Kurt's abdomen, kissing a line south from his navel, following the path of the zipper as he pulled it down. RemovingKurt's tight black jeans was another matter. They clung stubbornly to Kurt's hips.

"I may need some help here," Devon said.

Kurt laughed and took Devon's hands in his own, pulling them up his chest. "There's a trick," he said, kicking off his shoes and shimmying his hips until the pants slipped down.

Devon grabbed his ass and pulled him forward, sliding Kurt's cock along his cheek, taking the time to kiss at its base, to trace the silky skin with his tongue before finally taking Kurt deep.

Kurt was dizzied by the conflicting sensations—the hands kneading his ass, the steady suction on his dick, the bobbing mass of dark hair grown unruly under his touch.

It was the most enthusiastic blow job in memory.

"Wait. Shit! Devon, stop."

Devon pulled off, gasping, his lips swollen and red, his mouth twisted into a salacious smile.

"You sure?"

Kurt helped him to his feet, then kissed him solidly.

"Please tell me you have condoms in here somewhere."

Devon reached over to the table, to a basket of chips, nuts, cookies and random sundries. Toward the back, he reached for a small box, and poured it contents out on the tabletop: two condoms and what appeared to be a travel packet of lube. He took a small envelope-like box from the pile and stepped back to Kurt.

"Best mini bar ever," Devon said. "Turn around."

"Right here?"

"Right here."

Kurt watched the world below, holding the glass, listening to the rushed sounds of behind him of clothes being stripped and kicked across the room. He rested his forehead against the glass, absorbing his quickly overloading senses: a warm hand tracing down his spine, thick lips lingering over his shoulder blades. A knee nudged his legs apart, fingers drifted from hip to hole.

A breathy voice whispered behind his ear, "This okay?"

"Please."

The sound of something tearing, of skin rubbing against skin, and warm, slick fingers pressed, the retreated, and pressed again.

_Oh shit. It's been too long._

Kurt struggled to keep both arms crossed on the glass in front of him. As fingers dipped and twisted, he fought the urge to take himself in hand, to finish what his body wanted to complete. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, focused on relaxing muscles that wanted only to contract.

"I'm ready," Kurt said.

"You sure? You feel..."

"I'm ready. Just fuck me."

"Okay."

The fingers slowly slipped away, and Kurt could make out the faint crackle of foil tearing. He opened his eyes and looked up. He could see the reflection of this beautiful man, _this stranger,_ tossing aside the wrapper and rolling on the condom. He picked up a second packet, previously set aside, and squeezed the remaining lube into his hand, jacking himself. His dick was erect, thick, not as long as his own but certainly more than what Kurt had hoped for.

The hand returned to his hip, digging in slightly this time, steadying him for the slow, blunt incursion.

_Breathe._  

He felt breath at his neck. Stronger, rhythmic bursts of air as Devon slowly pushed forward. Then, a deep inhale, and he stopped.

"Come on," Kurt said.

Devon pulled back and surged forward again, his breathing picking up pace with every thrust as their bodies slapped together. Keeping one hand on Kurt's hip, Devon slipped the other up his back to Kurt’s neck, pressing downward to create a fulcrum, allowing him to adjust his angle.

"Right there, faster," Kurt urged.

They picked up their pace, lost contact and hurriedly reconnected, apologizing and laughing as they regained their rhythm. 

Close, not quit there, Kurt pulled his right arm out from its spot along the glass, and reached down to touch himself. He was quickly slapped away, replaced by a warm, unfamiliar hand and wrist hair that scratched at his thighs as it jacked him to relief.

Slamming into his body one last time, Devon moaned and stilled, still rolling his thumb over the head of Kurt's Kurt's cock until he spilled, coming hard across Devon's wrist.

"Oh god. Mattress. I need..."

Devon turned Kurt away from the window, toward the bed.

"Let's get you off your feet."

He was only going to catch his breath, rest for a few moments, politely cuddle for a little while before slipping into his clothes and back to his apartment. But a momentary rest became a second round, a flip, a chance to burrow inside a body he wouldn't soon forget.

And when they finished again, sweaty and debauched, Kurt swore he would leave. But with those arms wrapped around his waist, that chin hooked over his shoulder, the knee snuggled between his thighs, he couldn't help himself. He settled in and fell asleep, promising himself that this was nothing more than a nap.

* * *

Kurt awoke to the first rays of the morning sun, dappling the walls in subtle shades of pink and gold, and the soft snore of the man whose arm stretched across his chest. It would be so easy to just stay put, to settle in and enjoy a few more moments with the body that seemed to fit his own so completely.

Then he remembered his schedule, and the admonition from Santana—just before she ordered her second drink—that he should stay sober and get to bed early if he was going to leave the right impression at his early-morning gig. Technically, he’d followed her orders.

Kurt looked at the clock. He was already going to be cutting it close to get home, shower, change and get back to the Javits in time for the 7:30 breakfast. He slipped out from under the arm that still crossed his chest and in to his clothes and carrying his shoes, tiptoed toward the door. He turned to look back, a last look at that lovely ass that was scarcely covered by the sheet. Then he opened the door, and walked out.

As he shut the door behind him, Kurt could hear the muffled sound of an alarm clock inside the room.

 


	7. The Brave Little Bow Tie, Part Two

In his new role as teddy bear tie,

Bo spent his days at the young boy's side

Each day they would play, the boy and the bear.

Magicians, musicians, pilots and more,

Each day a new world for Bo to explore.

Today, a villain in the Wild West

With the boy playing the sheriff

In a hat, star and vest.

Around his neck, a new tie to meet.

Skinny and stringy, Bolo was the law on this street.

"Howdy partner! What's a little tie like you doing in a town like this?"

"We're the bad guy today!" Bo said with joy.

Bolo looked him up and down, 

Then spoke, his face in a frown.

"What villain would wear a tie like that?" he said. "Son, you're not cut out to be bad." 

"It takes less colorful hue to play the cad."

"Try somewhere else, because here you're just strange."

"Little bow ties don't belong on the range."


	8. Kama Seusstra, Part Five

"There's been a change to your panel."

Rod shepherded Blaine across the Javits to a side entrance of the main hall, site of the morning breakfast panel for a crowd of a few thousand conventioneers willing to spend up to $150 for cold muffins, lukewarm coffee and hot galleys of upcoming books.

Blaine struggled to keep up, quietly shuffling behind Rod.

"Blaine? You with me?"

Behind the haze of a sex-fueled night, Blaine barely heard it. It hurt to think. It hurt to breathe. And it certainly hurt to walk, though he didn't mind that quite so much.

He awoke alone, regrettably—much to his surprise.

Blaine was no stranger to one night stands, he'd nearly made a sport of it at times, and while he would sometimes let a man spend the night, he would do his level best to discourage him from lingering. He didn't pick someone up at a bar—or a corporate party—to form a lasting bond. He wasn't interested in a relationship. It was a release. It was sex, pure and simple.

Though last night felt anything but simple.

He couldn't remember ever moving in so fast, or having a rapid invitation result in such an enthusiastic response. Damn. He wouldn't mind a second round—if he'd bothered to get the man's last name.

Kurt the agent, maybe. Or possibly an editor. Sure, that should narrow it down.

Kurt, the man with silken ivory skin, so sensitive to touch, so receptive to his mouth and fingers, so beautiful in his bed.

Ultimately, it was good that his hook up hit the road before he woke up. By the time his alarm went off, Blaine had to dash to get showered, dressed and to the lobby in time to meet the Town Car that had been booked for him. Had Kurt stayed until daybreak, Blaine might very well have stood up a convention hall full of booksellers.

He was scheduled as a featured speaker on the day's breakfast panel—a prestige gig that would require him to speak coherently about the inspiration behind his book. Check that—as of yesterday, his series. He should have been focused on his presentation, or networking with the other panelists, but he found himself distracted.

"Blaine? Did you hear me? The panel's changed. They swapped out. You're going to be seated next to an online writer now," Rod said, waving his hand. "That guy with the porn."

 _That_ got Blaine's attention.

"Whoa, whoa... what? I thought this was a kids' panel. I'm on a panel with a guy who writes porn?"

Rod steered Blaine toward a coffee urn and poured two quick cups.

"That guy with the serial? The one who just signed with Sylvester & Schuester? He's been all over the place lately. Hummel?"

Blaine shrugged.

"They put a porn writer on a panel of children's book authors?" he asked.

"It's not all kiddie lit. The theme was supposed to be hot new writers, but some genius booked it so that three of the four authors on there had written children's books and I guess they felt three was overkill, so they bumped that guy with the book about dancing swamp rats and then added this Hummel guy. You haven't heard about him?"

Blaine slowly shook his head.

"Well, let me tell you, he's the new big deal in a hot genre. There was a bidding war for him. And when you're around other people, please call it _erotica_."

Blaine lowered his nose to the top of his coffee cup, closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.

"What the hell did you do to yourself last night, Anderson?"

_If you only knew..._

Blaine peered over the rim of the cup and glared at Rod. So many things about this bombastic man made Blaine cringe. But he was good at his job and had gotten _The Brave Little Bow Tie_ on bestseller lists as well as waiting lists at local libraries. It wouldn't be long, thanks to Rod Remington, that Blaine could define his own future. And for that, he was willing to make a few compromises, do a few things he once eschewed.

Like struggling to keep his eyes open at a 7:30 a.m. panel with a porn—scratch that— _erotica_ writer.

* * *

They recognized each other instantly. 

The panel, along with their collective publicists, agents and companions, had assembled in a cordoned-off side room for a private breakfast and a chance for convention organizers and event sponsors to pose for the standard line-up of grip-and-grin photos with their guests.

But Kurt, running late, missed most of the falderal, and arrived just in time for a conference sponsor to bring the group to order, read a few last-minute instructions, and lead them backstage for their introductions.

"You've got to be kidding me," Blaine said, almost inaudibly.

"You know him?" Rod asked.

"We've met. I just didn't know..."

That's when Kurt turned and saw Blaine standing not five feet from him, staring. He looked like he'd taken a punch to the gut.

"We'll all take our seats at once—Mr. Rutherford, then Ms. Pierce, followed by Mr. Anderson and finally Mr. Hummel. Jerry will read short introductions for each of you, then a longer intro when it's your turn to present."

Kurt took a step, and closed the gap between them as the group began to move backstage. He pulled alongside Blaine and lowered his head.

"I guess I should introduce myself," Kurt said.

"You're the stand-in? Hummel?"

Kurt bit his lower lip and nodded.

"I thought you said you were an agent."

 _Please welcome our panelists! Author of the bestselling novel about teenage abandonment,_ Forgotten _, Matt Rutherford._

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't say anything."

 _Next, the mind behind the children's story of a cat and its purloined night clothes,_ The Cat's Pajamas- _Brittany S. Pierce._

"Would it have mattered?"

 _Next, the author who made bow ties the chic accessory for the pre-kindergarten set, Blaine Anderson, author of_ The Brave Little Bow Tie.

Kurt's eyes opened wide and he turned, glaring at Blaine as he walked to the stage.

"What?"

 _And finally, the online writer of serial erotica who is about to bring new readers to S &S Books and who found a way to make baseball sexy, _Out at Home' _s Kurt Hummel._

Like so many conferences, the panelists were set up behind a long table on stage, with a podium set up to one side for the emcee. Each spot was pre-set with a glass of water, a nameplate and a microphone.

And the only seat left, the one wedged between the podium and the children's book author he now knew to be Blaine Anderson, was reserved for Kurt.

He sat down and looked straight ahead. Before the welcoming applause died down, Kurt reached forward, cupping the microphone to block his words.

"Funny. I thought your name was _Devon._ "

They sat stone-faced for much of the session, occasionally feigning amusement when the room erupted in laughter or applause.

Kurt looked out at the audience. He couldn't really see beyond the VIP seats at the very front of the auditorium, but it was enough to catch Santana's eye. She gave him a nod and a shrug, code for _What's wrong with you?_

He responded with the slightest of glances over to the attractive man to his left.

Again, a shrug.

_...this is really an autobiography. Lord Tubbington wanted to write his story, but his spelling is really bad, so..._

Pierce had long since eclipsed her allotted time, but had swept up the crowd with a series of home videos featuring her "writing partner and inspiration," Lord Tubbington. The 20-pound tabby really did nothing in the videos except lie down and occasionally look at the camera, but Pierce narrated each as though the cat had something to say.

_...here's Lord Tubbington preparing for his meeting with the attorney general..._

The crowd was eating it up.

_...he is planning to wed the Lady Tubbington in fall..._

"Can she actually be called Lady Tubbington before they're married?" Blaine whispered.

Kurt shook his head.

"Like most aristocratic couples, they're probably cousins," he mumbled. "Make it stop."

_Thank you, Brittany Pierce! I'm sure we're all looking forward to your wedding album follow up!_

The emcee, late-night comedian Jerry Clark, used each break between presenters to plug his own autobiography. He hinted at scurrilous gossip, of scandal. He reminded the crowd of the book's release date for the third time since he took the stage. Then he turned his attention to Blaine.

_I'm guessing that our next guest needs no introduction, but it's my job to do it anyway..._

"Actually, I think he does," Kurt muttered.

 _This year, his debut children's book has gone from self-published press to bestseller and the catalyst for spin offs and children's fashions. Because of him, my son insists on dressing like a museum curator. There's even rumor of a movie. And Ratite Books has just announced a deal for two sequels. Please welcome the author of_ The Brave Little Bow Tie, _Blaine Anderson._

The room erupted in applause and cheers—and a couple of wolf whistles. Kurt couldn't tell if they were from men or women. He noticed the rest of the panel applauding and clapped his hands together briefly so as not to look conspicuous.

Blaine scooted his chair forward and pulled the microphone closer. He dipped his head and gave a little wave to the crowd as if trying to get them to stop.

And was that a blush on his cheeks? If he wasn't mistaken, Kurt thought he looked almost shy. There was no sign of the sensual man who had convinced Kurt to join him in his hotel room mere minutes after meeting.

The segment was staged as a question-and-answer between Blaine and the late night host, and Kurt found himself stuck between a comedian who was already grating on his last nerve and the man he never expected to see again. The man he could still feel in his bones, still smell, still taste.

The man he would rather not make eye contact with.

But he couldn't help himself. Blaine Anderson was as handsome as Devon from the bar, maybe even more so now that he showed signs of a self-conscious demeanor in front of the standing room-only crowd.

His knowing smirk was replaced with a sweet smile, and while still fashionable, his wardrobe was a bright, youthful twist on Prep School Instructor—which Kurt may or may not have been having fantasies about.

As Blaine answered a battery of questions from the emcee and members of the audience— _What inspired a story about a bow tie? You're single with no kids, so why a children's book? What does the bow tie represent?_ _—_ Kurt found himself gradually turning in his chair, paying attention to what seemed to be earnest, heartfelt answers to each question. Except maybe the one asking his relationship status, which Blaine artfully dodged.

_Who is this guy?_

"This started out as kind of a lark, really. I was just making up a story for my friend's little girl. She liked it so much that Sam—that's her dad—drew some great art to illustrate it. The next thing you know, we had a book. This is all as much a surprise to me as it probably is to all of you, and I hope that between the plush toys and the pop-up books, there isn't too much overkill at Toys-R-Us for you next Christmas."

The crowd gave him a standing ovation, and Blaine nodded shyly once more. He looked briefly to Kurt, offering him a closed-mouth smile.

_Speaking of pop-up, our final guest today is porn writer Kurt Hummel...._

Blaine's smile turned to a grimace that was almost indistinguishable to anyone but Kurt, who simply closed his eyes and took a centering breath.

_He has made a name for himself in the world of online erotic fiction, where his serial about scoring in professional baseball has not only earned him an army of lascivious fans, but also a major book contract. Let's see if he can get to second base with all of you! Please welcome, Kurt Hummel._

Kurt glanced down at the VIP section, where Santana looked like she could cut a bitch.

He sensed all eyes on him, and cleared his throat. He saw a hand reach over, pour a glass of water and set it within his reach. It then reached forward, drawing Kurt's microphone close.

Blaine then caught his eye, nodding slightly, a sympathetic "go ahead."

Kurt drew another deep breath and looked out to the audience.

"Thank you, Jerry, for that... introduction. It's true. I write erotica. Feel free to call it porn if you want. But my subscribers call it entertainment, and the publishing houses that bid on the chance to publish _Out at Home_ think that it's already in the big leagues."

From the corner of his eye, Kurt could see Blaine Anderson bite back a smile.

"So as I understand it, we're here to celebrate new voices or hot new authors or some such thing. And trust me, I get the irony of my being seated next to children's authors, but let's take a moment and look at what my genre has done and continues to do for this industry."

Kurt detailed a spreadsheet's worth of data about romance fiction's impact of the publishing industry—a thriving genre in a struggling industry, with romance fiction representing more than a billion dollars a year in revenue with readers who are devoted to their genre, still buying as many today as they did ten years ago.

"Say what you will, but titles like _Out at Home_ let publishers pursue pet projects: that little novella you fell in love with; that book of poetry that ten people will buy; that deep work of literary fiction that will win awards but not readers. Our genre helps pay for those booths out on the exhibition hall, not to mention your parties. Think of titles like _Out at Home_ as the football of NCAA sports. Football players may get a special dorm, and special treatment, but their games also fund 90 percent of the other sports on campus—including the ones that don't generate enough revenue to pay for themselves."

Kurt had picked up a groove now, and was speaking with a cut rhythm and a mannered confidence that left the room silent.

"Make your jokes, but our books also get people reading, and some people writing—people who otherwise might not be reading and writing. It gets people dreaming—and there's nothing to be ashamed of in that.

" _Out at Home_ may contain adult content _,_ but its themes aren't that much different than those of _The Brave Little Bow Tie,_ when it come right down to it. Mr. Anderson here said that his book is about leading an authentic life, of not being afraid to be yourself. Well, so is _Out at Home..._ just with a lot of really hot sex."

Silent for most of his speech, the audience erupted in cheers, with people scrambling to get to their feet. Jerry Clark bit his lip and kept his seat.

Blaine stood, applauding with the crowd.

* * *

"Can we talk?"

Kurt had moved quickly to leave the stage, and hopefully the room, after the end of the panel. Blaine rushed to catch up to him.

"Kurt?"

Stuck behind a crowd near the door, Kurt wheeled around and faced him.

"Yes, Devon?"

Blaine looked down briefly, shaking his head before making eye contact again.

"That's obviously not my name. I mean, it is. It's my middle name, actually, but it's obviously not what I go by," he said.

"Why did you lie to me?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"Like I said earlier, not the same thing."

The crowd that had collected backstage shoved past them, some trying to insert themselves in to their conversation, to shake hands, to congratulate them on the panel.

None of them were successful. Blaine took Kurt by the elbow and steered him away from the door.

"I'm sorry, Kurt. I guess it's kind of a habit."

"You lie about who you are habitually?"

"No—well, yes, kind of. You've got to know how crazy it can get, right? You've got fans. The questions. The same conversations that you've had a million times. I introduce myself as Blaine Anderson, and there's a good chance I'm going to listen to a soliloquy about someone's child, or grandchild, and I just didn't want to risk that last night. I saw a man looking like he was thinking about me the way I was thinking about him, and the last thing I wanted to do was talk about how cute little Johnny is in his bright red bow tie."

Kurt narrowed his eyes and looked around. The crowd had cleared. Either could easily slip out, but they lingered.

"You just wanted to get laid."

"So did you."

"You do that a lot?" Kurt asked.

"What? Use my middle name?"

"Lie about who you are to hit on someone."

"First time I've ever called myself Devon? No. First time I called myself Devon with a man I wanted to get alone? Yes. I saw you looking at me and I knew was done playing author for the day. I think the same thought crossed your mind. You let me believe you were someone you aren't."

"So we both misrepresented ourselves." Kurt's tone had softened, but there was still some residual bite to his voice.

"I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you."

"Is this where we get drunk again and fuck overlooking the High Line?"

Blaine's face burst into the same magnetic grin Kurt recognized from the night before.

"Only if you want," he said.

"Don't mistake me for my book."

"I promise. I was actually thinking about something else—a do-over."

"A do-over?" Kurt asked.

"Yes, tonight, if you're free. Sam's heading back to Chicago this morning, but I have one more meeting this afternoon, so I'm headed out tomorrow. Maybe we could have dinner?"

"You're kidding right? Like a date?"

"Something like that, yeah."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks, as always to Annie for making sure the world is unaware of my spelling issues. Kama Seusstra isn't exactly what you call beta'd, but we do at least check for major flubs. Thanks for reading, everybody!


	9. Out at Home, Episode Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Week Five.. Thanks to everyone following along! While Kama Seusstra is not beta'd, my thanks to Annie for squeezing in the time to give this a very quick read each week to try to prevent me from completely falling on my face.

He told himself he was lucky.

He'd skipped right over A-ball, and spent scarcely a month in Double-A before the Pirates' organization decided it needed a new catcher at its Triple-A Indianapolis affiliate, the Indians. It could have been worse. It could have been Georgia, or Kentucky or Toledo, for god's sake.

It helped to be labeled as an up-and-coming star slugger. He was a bonus baby, being treated well in the Pirates' premier affiliate; and while it wasn't in a metropolis, it was enough of an urban center to be interesting, even offer a nightlife, not that he'd had much time for that.

So as he unpacked his bag in his assigned locker at Victory Field, Johnny Corello counted his blessings... right up until he saw the roster for the visiting team. Because starting for the Louisville Bats in the twilight game was its ace, a southpaw who could throw flames and who ignited Johnny's imagination.

Andre Jones.

He hadn't seen Andre since Stanford defeated his FSU Seminoles in the Super Regionals round of last year's College World Series, and they hadn't exchanged words since a brief "congratulations" as they slowly passed each other in a hallway after Game Three.

He also hadn't met anyone who had come anywhere close to knocking him for a loop the way Andre had during their few hours together in Omaha. It was too brief: a hand job, a blow job, a sweet, slow fuck that had seared itself into his memory.

He'd gotten laid since then, plenty: the FSU wide receiver who wanted to check out the locker room after hours, the TA from his communications class who let his tongue do the talking, the assistant to the agent—a set-up, he was certain, a teaser to entice Corello to sign. _Well, I banged your twink assistant 'til he could barely stand, but I signed with the firm that got me endorsements and a contract bonus that paid cash for my BMW._

But Andre Jones was another matter entirely. Johnny hardly knew him, really, but the ace with the arm of fire, the honey-skinned face of an angel and an ass blessed by the gods simply refused to get out of his head.

And _that_ wasn't good, because with the teams located only two hours apart, the Indianapolis Indians and the Louisville Bats saw each other a lot during the minor league season.

It wasn't until he put on his chest protector and mask, and got behind the plate that Johnny had the realization that should have been second nature to him. He wouldn't just be batting against Jones—a likely Cy Young candidate some day, if the scouts were right. They played for National League affiliates, and Jones would be batting.

And in the second inning, with one out and men on first and third, that's exactly what happened.

Andre Jones was a little old school about his uniform. He didn't buy into the trend of pitchers who wore their pants a long and baggy. He liked them lean and snug, cropped below the knee with traditional stirrupsover his white socks. His uniform showed off each indent of his thigh muscle, the bulge of his calf, the line of his jock strap, the cleft on his ass.

If Johnny didn't unlock his eyes from the vision that was Andre Jones' well-tailored uniform, he wouldn't be able to call balls and strikes. He kicked at the chalk outline of the batters box—once, twice for emphasis—then waited for the umpire to dust off the plate, buying him time to clear his head. He sensed Andre glancing down at him, just for a moment. He could feel Andre's eyes on him just as sure as he did when he was deep inside him, so close to coming, trying so hard to hold off.

_Time!_

Johnny walked it off, strode to the pitcher's mound to confirm the signals, then circled back to the box. He looked up, briefly.

Andre Jones had a crooked half-grin on his face. 

Johnny got down into a deep crouch, signaled two fingers, high on his inner thigh, followed by a tapping of three fingers in the same spot. Then he slapped at his mitt. Andre waggled his bat, and maybe his ass, just a little.

The pitch, a high curve, whizzed past his head.

_Passed ball._

_Shit! Get it together, Corello._

His pitcher glared at him, a _What the fuck, Johnny?_ look.

Andre Jones looked pleased with himself.

Johnny returned to his crouch, signaled a fast ball and settled in. The pitch was right in the middle of the zone, and Andre slapped at it, connecting for a single.

It wouldn't be his first of the day, and by the time he handed the ball over to a reliever in the seventh inning, Andre Jones had contributed two of the Bats' six runs and would be the pitcher of record in the team's shutout of the Indians.

Johnny consoled himself with a long rest in the therapy tub after the game, and the knowledge that he wouldn't have to face the ace in the next two games of the home stand. He was, as was often the case, the last to leave the locker room, and as he did, he stumbled right into Andre Jones.

"What are you still doing here?" he asked. "Miss your team bus?"

"I take a long time cooling down. Gonna catch a cab back to the hotel."

"You don't have to do that," Johnny said. "I can drive you back."

Andre didn't say much, he just looked at Johnny, letting his eyes drift down to his lips, then back.

He nodded.

The stadium was dark—the crowds, players and stadium crew gone for the night and the lights dimmed.

"You sure you can find your car out here?" Andre laughed.

"In this crowd?" Johnny looked around the dark, near-empty lot. "Good thing I park in the same place each day." He pointed to a black BMW 328i in a far corner of the players' lot, and clicked the remote.

They climbed in to the car and Johnny put the key in the ignition, but stopped before turning it over. He looked straight ahead, didn't chance even a momentary glance to the man at his side.

"I was thinking about you the other day, about Omaha."

"You nearly had me off my game that day," Andre said.

"Like me today," Johnny added. "I saw the roster and..."

"It's going to happen. We're in the same division."

Johnny looked up, into Andre's eyes. "Is this going to be a problem?"

Andre held his gaze, then turned toward Johnny, angling his head as their lips met. The kiss was measured, deliberate and unforced.

Johnny raised his hand, cupping Andre's jaw, drawing him in to deepen the kiss and re-open a door he thought had long-since closed. He pressed with his tongue, gently sucking at Andre's lower lip.

Awkwardly angled over the center console, Johnny tried to roll over toward the passenger seat, but pulled back when he hitched his hip on the steering wheel.

"Damn it."

He reached to the side of the seat, to the controller, which let him slide it back, freeing him from the wheel's clutch. "Recline your seat," he said, his voice a rasp.

Andre smiled, and reached down to his side, fumbling before his fingers found the controller to the seat. He pressed the button to recline as far back as he could, until it was nearly horizontal. "Better?"

Johnny climbed oh-so-carefully over the stick shift and handbrake and settled himself atop Andre in the passenger seat.

"Goddamn console," he muttered. "This car is still too fucking small for the two of us."

"Should've bought the five series, Johnny."

Johnny kissed him, hard and deep, pulling a moan up from somewhere deep in Andre's chest. He reached his hand around Andre's hip, and pulled him in tight until he could feel Andre's dick lined up solidly against his own.

"If I'd known I'd be doing this in here I would have bought the fucking SUV. Goddamn. I'd better be able to get down into my crouch tomorrow, because Tom pulled his hamstring the other day... "

"Johnny?" Andre said, his fingers sliding down Johnny's spine, dipping into Johnny's waistband.

"Hmm?"

Andre ran his tongue around the shell of Johnny's ear.

"Shut up," he whispered.

He jerked his hips upward, wrapping his leg around Johnny's thighs. Solidly connected, locked together, Andre began a slow, circular movement of his hip, grinding their cocks and ensuring that the only sound Johnny could make were the moans rising from deep within his chest.

Andre grabbed his ass and held tight, pushing Johnny to match his pulsing rhythm.

_C'mon Johnny. Work with me. That's it. Just like that._

His words were punctuated his breath, panting like accent marks as he talked Johnny through to release.

_I feel you. God. Like that, Johnny. Just like that. You feel so good. I'm gonna come._

Gripping the back of Andre's head, pulling their foreheads together, Johnny matched Andre movement for movement until he gritted out his orgasm and fell still.

They stilled and stayed locked in their embrace for silent minutes, until Johnny pulled back, opening his eyes to look at Andre.

"I was going to ask you if you wanted to get dinner, but..."

"Not exactly dressed for it?"

Johnny looked down. His crotch was absolutely _soaked._

"Room service?"

Andre chuckled. Room service? This was minor league ball, even if it was Triple-A. Room service amounted to calling out for pizza.

"I can't," he said simply.

Johnny nodded.

"My place?"

"Curfew. I _can't._ "

But he sure sounded like he wanted to.

"Maybe tomorrow, when you're not pitching?"

Andre smiled. "Maybe."

 

*  * *

An hour before game three of the series with the Louisville Bats, and Johnny was already deep in his pregame ritual. He had studied video and scouting reports and met with the day's pitcher, a kid not long out of his Texas high school with a wicked curveball and a tendency to throw wild. He was just getting ready to help the kid through his warm-up pitches when the Indians' manager called the team together for a pregame meeting.

John Marshall had already lived a full life in the world of baseball, and had worked for one affiliate or another of the Pittsburgh Pirates for most of his career. He had a long-established system for announcing the inevitable roster changes of a minor league ball club. A player gets traded, or worse yet, demoted? Call him in after the game, while his teammates are focused on getting dressed to go home. Got a new acquisition? Introduce him before the game, let him slide right in to the roster.

The team knew, from habit alone, that a change had been made.

"The big club made some moves today, and we've got some personnel changes," he said. Ramon has been traded to the Reds organization, along with an infielder from Altoona."

Not completely surprising, Johnny thought. The team was sick with outfielders, though both were prospects. They must have traded for some serious talent.

"And I'd like to introduce you all to the newest member of our pitching staff, and it's a good thing, considering how he took us apart yesterday. Everybody, this is Andre Jones. Andre, why don't you take the locker over there next to Corello? He's about to be your new best friend."


	10. Kama Seusstra, Part Six

He should have walked.

Blaine cursed the moment he decided to stop by the hotel—it _would_ just be a moment, he thought, a chance to freshen up, shave, change out of the clothes that had begun to feel like a costume. Just a chance to be himself.

He thought the cab would save him time. Mistake number two: The West Side Highway was wall-to-wall cars, and the cabbie said side streets would be no better. "It's always jammed this time of day," he said, honking his horn and cutting off a sedan to merge into the left turn lane.

And now, as they rounded the corner to West 20th Street in Chelsea, looking for the Mediterranean restaurant Kurt had suggested for dinner, Blaine was running nearly 30 minutes late.

Foolishly, he'd failed to get Kurt's number, so Blaine had no idea whether he would still be there, or would simply write him off.

Blaine wrapped on the partition, and beckoned the driver to stop. "I'll walk it from here," he said. He hustled out of the taxi and up the street, until he saw the chalkboard sidewalk sign advertising tapas and happy hour specials. He stepped up to the host stand and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dim filament lighting.

But as he scanned the crowded room for a familiar face, he saw only couples and small groups of friends; not a solo diner in sight.

"One for dinner? We may have room at the bar," the hostess said.

"Actually, I was supposed to meet someone, but I'm running a little late."

"Devon?"

"That would be me."

"Follow me."

She led him through the narrow strip of a cafe, past the kitchen, to a back door which led to a grotto-like garden, lined in cut stone and illuminated by paper lanterns and tiny wired lights strung between trees.

In a far corner sat Kurt, legs crossed, leaning back in his chair and nursing a glass of wine.

"Well, hello Devon. I was starting to wonder if you'd make it."

"Sorry."

Kurt sat forward in his seat, resting an elbow on the table.

"I took a leap of faith and ordered us some tapas. I figured if you stood me up, I could just eat my anger away."

"No need for that," Blaine said.

"No need for that," Kurt echoed.

Their night was a blur of Sangria-infused laughter and conversation, of playing an _I can top that_ game of fan encounters and unexpected demands created by their surprising careers.

"People send me bow ties," Blaine said.

"People send me dildos," Kurt countered.

"Keep any of them?"

Kurt just smiled.

The evening air never settled into a spring cool, and they settled on walking Blaine back to his hotel, strolling the High Line, pretending to look at the city lights.

"So, is this a truce?" Blaine asked. "Am I forgiven?"

"Apologize."

"I did... I have," Blaine stammered.

"Not for that—for saying I deceived you. All I did was follow your lead," Kurt said. He held an intent stare, and Blaine couldn't suss out whether this was playful banter or a serious issue—and he wasn't going to risk finding out.

"I'm sorry. I was kind of a jerk last night."

Kurt's eyes narrowed as his lips curled into a hint of a smile.

"Okay, then. I think you were forgiven back at the convention hall, but this was fun."

They walked side-by-side, occasionally bumping elbows, or hips, allowing their fingers to graze in time with their footsteps until they found themselves standing on the pathway beneath the looming hotel, absorbing the awkward silence.

"I guess I should go," Kurt said, biting his lip.

Blaine knew he could end it right here, make a clean break. Chalk it up to the one-night stand he had intended it to be, a hot night, possibly followed by an awkward new friendship.

"Don't," he said. "Stay."

He looked down as he took Kurt's hand in his. "I have one more night, and there are fresh sheets and room service."

"And an audience," Kurt said, nodding to the passing pedestrians.

The left side of Blaine's mouth lifted into a crooked smile.

"We'll close the curtains this time. Just you and me, and maybe some pancakes. Stay with me."

* * *

Their second night together stood in stark contrast to the first—the slow rhythm of discovery over the frenzied pace of anonymity. They savored each moment; each button released, each inch of skin revealed, breathing each other in before slipping out of their clothes and into each other’s arms. They caressed, kissed, explored, and then fell back exhausted bliss, sweaty and content, curled into each other’s bodies.

"So Devon," Kurt said, lifting himself up to fold his hands and rest his chin on Blaine's chest.

"You ever going to let that go?"

"Probably not, no."

Blaine shook his head, and smiled. He supposed he'd earned this.

"I was just thinking—if all those preschoolers knew what the author of their favorite children's book could do with his tongue..."

"Oh my god."

"I mean, you have talents the world is not aware of. I'm thinking it's time to plan a new promotional campaign. Just imagine the adventures that Bo the Tie could have."

"Oh, please."

"He could go to a strip joint. The brave little Chippendales bow tie!"

"No."

"He could be used to tie someone to a bed. The brave little BDSM bow tie."

Kurt sat up in bed with an excited bounce. He'd hit a rhythm with this, and was clearly enjoying himself.

"This is a two-way street, you know," Blaine said, pulling himself up into the pillows until he was seated alongside Kurt.

"Hmm?" Kurt's voice sounded dreamlike, but his eyes were alert and bright.

"The king of online porn, so shy about his one night stand. Had to do all the work myself."

"Is that what this is? That bow tie saga of yours is clearly not a counting book, since you seemed to have missed the fact that this is now a _two_ _night stand_. And I'm not shy. I'm private."

Blaine rolled over on top of Kurt and kissed him. "I stand corrected."

* * *

"Can I ask you something?"

They had run a bath in the oversized corner tub, Kurt sat chest deep in the water, with Blaine reclining between his legs, his back to Kurt's chest.

"Of course," Blaine said.

Kurt wrapped his arms around Blaine and let his fingers drift, playing with the well-groomed hair that dotted his chest.

"I'm not judging here... but I just wanted to know, I guess... I was wondering..."

"Spit it out."

Kurt sat up a little straighter, lowered his head slightly. He kissed the crown of Blaine's head. "Do you do this a lot?"

"What? Bathe?"

"You know... " Kurt raised his hands out of the water, waving toward their chests. " _This._ "

Blaine slid a little deeper into the tub, turning slightly to rest his head against Kurt's shoulder.

"I don't really do relationships, Kurt. I haven't in a long time."

Kurt nodded silently.

"That's not to discount this in any way."

Kurt responded with little hint of emotion. "Of course."

"Besides, someone reminded me earlier that this is now a _two_ night-stand, so that's a big step for me."

Blaine ran his hand slowly up Kurt's leg, reaching around to gently massage his thigh.

"What about you? Is there someone? _Someones_? Or are you like me?"

_"Like you?"_

"You know, noncommittal." Blaine lifted up and turned so Kurt could see his face, and grinned. _"Slutty."_

"I didn't call you that."

"You didn't have to, and it's okay. Doesn't bother me. I am what I am."

"You sound like Popeye."

Blaine slapped at Kurt's thigh, splashing water and laughing.

"Very funny, and you're being evasive. I answered your question. Answer mine. I want to know you, Kurt Hummel."

"There's no one. There's no time."

Blaine's hand lingered on Kurt's leg, giving it a little squeeze. He nodded, and exhaled loudly.

"Sounds familiar."

He sat quietly, seemingly lost in thought.

"You know this water's cooling down," Kurt said. "And I'm a lot chattier over dessert. How about we dry off and order something decadent?

They were able to quickly agree on a bottle of champagne. The dessert was more of a challenge. Pumpkin cheesecake with gingersnaps, or a warm apple crisp with vanilla bean ice cream? They settled on bittersweet chocolate mousse with fresh whipped cream. "Both delicious and potentially entertaining," Blaine said with a wicked grin.

Wrapped snugly in hotel robes, they stretched out on the couch overlooking the lights of the city swapping stories and samples of the rich chocolate.

"So I know the whole press kit bio, but how'd you really get into this racket?" Blaine asked, licking mousse off his fingers.

"I'll have you know that erotica is a perfectly legitimate form of income," Kurt said in mock indignation.

"I didn't say it wasn't. It's just... there aren't a lot of gay men writing in your genre."

"Or a lot of men, period."

"Exactly. And knowing that my own bio is almost as fictional as my book, I just figure there's got to be more to it."

"The press kit's basically true. It's not detailed, but yeah—my friends and I had a bet. I won, and suddenly it was a subscriber service."

"I didn't think of it as a service, but on second thought..." Blaine chuckled, silenced by a soft thwack to his skull by Kurt's outstretched palm. "I'm kidding! Of course it's a service. You help people get off every day."

"Mmm. There's something for my resume."

"Is that what you're concerned about?"

"No. If so, I'd still be writing instruction manuals for dishwashers."

"What? Seriously? That's what you did?"

"Please, the title was 'technical writer'… but it hardly felt like writing."

"There's an art to everything, if you look hard enough. I mean, think about it," Blaine said, topping off their glasses. "Without competent prose, people could really fuck up their dishwasher installation."

"Thanks, but there are only so many ways to say 'push this button'."

Blaine reached over and wiped a smudge of whipped cream from Kurt's cheek, then held it in front of Kurt's mouth, an offering of sorts.

"You push mine."

"Oh my god, really?" Kurt tried to pull away, laughing, but Blaine rolled toward him, pressing his body into Kurt’s space.

"I love a bad pun," he said. "You do have skills, you know."

"I hardly even know how it happened."

Kurt shook his head and closed his eyes, then snapped them open.

"Wait a second. How do you know if I have skills? You didn't even know who I was twenty-four hours ago."

"I might have subscribed. This afternoon. It might have contributed to me being late for dinner."

"Oh my god," Kurt said, covering his eyes with his hand.

"I like it. It's hot. Nice three-way, by the way."

"OH. MY. GOD."

Blaine pulled Kurt's hand away to reveal a crimson flush rushing up his cheeks.

"What I can't figure out is, 'How is this gorgeously self-conscious guy currently blushing like school girl the same man who writes locker room threesomes?' "

"Ugh. Fuck me."

Blaine rolled his eyes dramatically. "If I must. But first, answer the question."

"It's a bit like America's sweetheart of kiddie lit being led around by his dick," Kurt said.

"Children’s icon day, sex god by night. I like it." Blaine's eyes danced with mirth.

"I don't know if I'd go so far as to say, "sex god," but fine. What I'm saying is, me writing porn, you writing kiddie lit? Same thing. Don't judge a book by its cover."

"I promise. I won't."

* * *

They fell asleep entwined just a few hours before sunrise, before Blaine would need to leave for LaGuardia, back to Chicago. In a final moment of coherence, he had called to the front desk for a 5 a.m. wake-up call. He had, after all, promised Kurt pancakes.

But an internal clock woke him up first, as was so often the case. He looked at the clock: 4:32 a.m. He glanced back to the bed, to the angelic face burrowed comfortably into an assortment of pillows.

He turned again and reached for the phone.

_Front desk, how may I help you, Mr. Anderson?_

* * *

Kurt carefully unraveled himself from the both the hotel sheets and the body that held him in a comfortable cocoon. He wrapped himself in the terry robe and opened the curtains, reluctantly letting in the early morning sunlight.

Blaine groaned and stretched, slowly opening his eyes to the day.

"You're going to miss your flight if you don't get dressed," Kurt said.

Blaine really had little to pack. The borrowed wardrobe had already been returned, and he had organized most of his own clothes in a suitcase before heading out to dinner the night before.

"I'll be fine," he said, patting the mattress. "Come back to bed."

"You're going to miss your flight."

"They booked me an open-ended ticket. I can change it as much as I want, and I called down and got late checkout. Come back to bed."

"Late checkout? How late?"

"I have 'til one. Come back..."

Kurt looked out at the yawning cityscape below.

"And then?"

Blaine propped himself up with excess pillows. He never really understood why hotels put eight, nine, even ten pillows on a bed, but he was certainly grateful for it.

"There are more seats on the late afternoon flights, anyway."

"I have another idea," Kurt said. "What would you think about pushing it back a little further?"

"To when?" Blaine asked.

Kurt shoved his hands in the deep pockets of the robe and shrugged.

"Monday?"

"Kurt, this room is like five hundred bucks a night, and I start picking up the tab today."

"And that's why you've got a late checkout, so we can enjoy this room a little more and before we fold up that suitcase and take it to my place. What do you say? A weekend in the city? Late nights? Late mornings? Have some fun?"

"I've been having fun," Blaine said, grinning.

"So let's have some more—unless you're busy—I'm just... extending the invitation."

Blaine watched Kurt for a moment without response. He reached over and grabbed the sheets, throwing them back so he could roll himself out of bed. He sat up, folding his hands together and resting his elbows on his knees. He looked once more at Kurt, and reached for the phone.

"Room service? I'd like to order some lemon blueberry pancakes, please."

* * *

Their one-night stand had stretched to three, with sleep-in mornings and improvised afternoons. They explored the city as if they were seeing it for the first time: a stroll through the flea market, a stolen kiss in an empty corner of the Guggenheim, a quiet supper in a tiny bistro located far enough from Kurt's neighborhood that he wouldn't run into acquaintances. The time was exclusively theirs, and they had no intentions of sharing what little of it they had with anyone else.

"What do you want to do tomorrow?" Kurt asked.

Blaine just smiled.

They chose to walk back to Kurt's apartment, enjoying the balmy spring evening and stopping at the bakery and neighborhood bodega.

"Let's go up on the roof," Kurt said.

The climbed the five flights to his apartment, dipped in long enough to grab glasses and a corkscrew, then hiked another flight to a private door and the open air.

He hadn't done much with it yet. Some simple white Christmas lights strung between rooftops scansions and a fold-up picnic table. But he had plans, he said. Someday, if things took off the way it looked like they might, he would build a lanai, a glassed-in space with patio trees and a breathtaking view of the city, the lights of the skyscrapers replacing stars in the night sky.

"You already have a view of the city," Blaine said, leaning against a wall that circled the perimeter of the small building. "It's beautiful up here."

"And I can enjoy it for maybe four months a year—and when we're really drunk and bundled up on New Year's."

And with any luck, when his top-floor neighbor decided to finally give the place up, he would be ready with an offer and cash so the top floor would be his, uninterrupted.

"A man with a plan," Blaine said.

"Absolutely."

"You're already on your way. You're close. But when that day comes, wouldn't you move somewhere newer? Quieter? With an elevator?"

Kurt laughed and set his drink down on the ledge. He took Blaine's hands and wrapped them around his waist, allowing Blaine to pull him close.

"The stairs are good for the glutes," he said.

"I noticed," Blaine said, letting his hands drift. He pulled Kurt's body close and angled his face to allow a slide of the lips, a deep kiss that quickly opened and unfurled. He ran a hand up Kurt's back, bracing it as he turned Kurt against the wall, pressing their bodies together. He freed his hands and grabbed at Kurt's hips, then placed a roundabout trail of kisses down his neck.

Holding Kurt's hips tight, Blaine lowered himself to his knees and reached for Kurt's belt.

"Let me blow you."

"My neighbors will see," Kurt murmured.

"You live in New York. Your neighbors already see. That's sport in this city. It's why you have binoculars on your window sill." He released the button on Kurt's slacks, and pressed his palm against his crotch.

Kurt gasped.

"Maybe I'm a birder."

Blaine unzipped Kurt's pants and pulled them down his hips.

"Whatever you say," he said, sliding his mouth over Kurt's straining cock.

He could do this all weekend. He _had_ done it all weekend, and still wanted more. He wanted leave Kurt panting, and gasping, and remembering this long after he was gone.

And he didn't know why.

* * *

They had one last day together, and Blaine was determined to savor it, soak in it, to let time drift by without schedules or agendas.

Kurt had other plans. As much as Blaine wanted to laze about the apartment, Kurt seemed determined to plot an hour-to-hour plan for a _perfect day in the city._ It started before Blaine was even vertical.

"What do you want to do today?"

Blaine's eyes opened, slightly, and he squeezed Kurt's hand.

"Sleep in," he groaned, shutting them again.

For Kurt, that meant about 10 a.m.—late by his standards, apparently less so by Blaine's, judging from the shapely lump stretched diagonally across Kurt's bed. He fought the temptation to climb back into bed and wake Blaine up, once and for all, with his mouth.

_Let him sleep, Kurt._

He brewed a pot of coffee and settled on to a bar stool, watching Blaine drift off.

_What am I doing? I just met this guy._

It's not that Kurt hadn't hooked up before. There'd been a few, sure. The rugby player with the broad shoulders and the tiny dick. The financial analyst he met on dance floor and blew in the cab. But it wasn't his habit. Kurt was a relationship guy, and it had been close to two years since there'd been anyone significant in his life.

But inviting a stranger into his home for a long weekend? _Never_. He'd never done anything like this before.

And what _was_ this? It had been three nights and yes, there had been sex— _a lot of sex_ —but with each day, he'd felt a growing sense of intimacy, of closeness with this man he had only just met... the man now groaning and stretching and allowing a thin layer of sheet to drift helplessly into his lap.

"Mmmmm. Coffee. I smell coffee."

"Want some?"

"Mmmmm."

"I'll take that at as yes," Kurt said, sipping from his mug.

Blaine finally opened his eyes.

"How long have you been watching me?"

"Is that what I'm doing?"

Blaine propped himself up and pulled the sheet back up to cover his lap, much to Kurt’s chagrin.

"Yup."

"Uh. Umm."

Kurt lowered his head and shook it slightly, something to knock some sense into it. He turned and stepped into the kitchen to pour Blaine a cup of coffee.

"You never told me yesterday," he said. "What do you want to do today?"

Blaine took the mug from Kurt and set it on the nightstand. He reached for Kurt's hand and pulled him back toward the bed.

"This," he said.

They spent a lazy morning in bed, talking and kissing, and then talking and kissing some more. It took considerable effort and a promise of shenanigans in the shower to convince Blaine to get up, get clean and get dressed, and when he finally did, he had no interest in going out.

"We could rush a show."

"Meh."

"How about if we go out for a late lunch?"

"Not that hungry."

"What do you want to do?" Kurt asked, again.

"Tell me again about the porn."

"You've got to be kidding."

"Well, the research for it has got to be a lot more fun than it is for writing instruction manuals."

"Oh my god. Do you ever stop? Wipe that grin off your face."

Blaine reclined on the couch in jeans and a T-shirt, with Kurt stretched out, using his lap as a pillow. He gently raked his fingers through Kurt's hair, adjusting the occasional stray.

"What's your family think of your newfound success?"

"That's complicated," Kurt said. He rubbed his hands together and stared absentmindedly at his fingertips. "I think my dad would support me no matter what, so long as I'm making a living doing something I enjoy. But there's little doubt he wishes I enjoyed something else."

"I bet."

There had been moments when Kurt could tell, little slips, moments when the awkwardness of it all outshone his father's outward support.

"I went home a while back and went out to dinner with my folks. We ran into a couple that they knew from church. They asked what I did for a living, and dad just kind of... stopped. I told him all he has to do is say ‘writer’ but it stumped him for a minute."

"Has he said anything about it?"

"I guess I'd describe him as proud of my success, but a bit embarrassed by it, too. I bet you don't have that problem, Mr. All American children's author."

"I think they'd be happier if the children's author actually had a wife and children."

"Oh."

"Oh. I left a perfectly successful, perfectly ordinary career because I wanted to write. But the novels didn't take off, and I was starting to take on clients again."

"And then the bow ties?"

"Then the bow ties. And now I am firmly tied up with bow ties."

"Those bow ties are treating you pretty well."

"Without a doubt," Blaine said, running his hand up and down Kurt's arm. "Let's not talk shop any more, okay?"

Kurt found himself in the company of someone he didn't expect. As the final hours of their weekend approached, they spent their time quietly enjoying each other’s company. They cooked dinner together, an unchoreographed dance to avoid bumping into each other in the tiny brick kitchen.  They snuggled. They read magazines together. They snuggled some more. Blaine wasn't the aggressive player of the first night, or the passionate lover of the second.

They laid face-to-face in bed, not even fully undressed, holding each other—no grabbing, no fondling, no rutting or anything approximating the sexual conduct Kurt had indulged himself in over the prior 72 hours.

"Blaine Devon Anderson, scrape away that sex-charged veneer and you're a cuddler."

Blaine rested his cheek on Kurt's shoulder.

"Is this okay, just this?"

"No sex?"

"Just this."

Kurt closed his eyes, savoring the moment. It was more than okay.

"What time's your flight?"

"Flight, version 3.0, is 9:30 out of LaGuardia. I'm going to have to be up pretty early."

Kurt nodded, bit his lip, and remained quiet.

"Hey." Blaine poked him on the temple with his index finger. "What's going on in there?"

"Hmm?"

"Whatcha thinking about?"

Kurt grimaced.

"I haven't worked in days. Do you have any idea what my inbox is going to look like?"

"You worked your ass off last week. You're entitled to some time off. _Select all. Delete._ "

"I don't think so."

"Don't you have an assistant, or a publicist, or someone to help you other than your agent?"

"I'm trying to avoid that."

"It may be time for a change."

Blaine pulled him close, placing a soft kiss at the side of his mouth, but Kurt didn't respond. "Is this okay?"

"Hmm?"

"You _are_ distracted. I'm supposed to be your distraction."

"You have been."

"Ah," Blaine said. "Ah ha."

He ran his hand along Kurt's arm—up, down and back again. "Time to talk?"

Kurt took a deep breath.

"So..." Blaine said.

"So."

"This has been quite a weekend."

Kurt nodded, and bit his lower lip.

"But?"

"But what's next?" Kurt asked. "Is there a next? I mean, don't get me wrong. I went into this the first night expecting it to just be one night and I was good with that— _really good with that._ And when it looked like it was going to stretch into a second night together, I thought, 'Okay, it's like a vacation fling'. And I could do that. But now... "

"Now it feels like maybe it's something more?"

"Maybe."

Blaine cupped Kurt's chin, drawing him in until they were forehead to forehead.

"Does this still feel like a fling to you?"

Kurt closed his eyes, shook his head, and exhaled.

"You don't do relationships."

"Not usually. Open your eyes, Kurt."

Kurt could feel pressure building in his eyes. It was the same feeling he got after winds stirred up pollen in the springtime and set off his allergies. It was the same feeling he got the last time he knew he was about to lose someone.

He opened them to the sight Blaine's face, inches from his own, looking just as worried as he felt.

"I could try. I can't guarantee it'll work, but I could try," Blaine said quietly. "I want to try."

Kurt leaned forward until their lips touched, a deal sealed with a delicate kiss. "So what's next?"

"More of the same. Meetings, conferences, media, book festivals—lots of book festivals."

"Me too."

"So we compare schedules? See where they line up. Play it by ear. And if all else fails, I'm about a two-hour flight away," Blaine said.

"Not a weekend fling?"

Blaine took Kurt's hand, and kissed him again. "No, not a fling, but let's not force this, either. I don't want to get ahead of ourselves. This is a lot more domesticity than I'm used to."

Kurt frowned, just momentarily, but enough to register the disconnect with Blaine.

"But I also know that if this ended tonight, I'd walk away wondering, 'What if?' and I don't want to do that."

 

 


	11. The Brave Little Bow Tie, Part Three

It was tea party day for the boy and the bear,

Dressed to the nines to enjoy their fine fare

Of finger sandwiches and drinks in tea cups.

Theodore sat propped in a chair

Across from the boy, who had dressed for a formal affair.

Dressed like his grandfather,

A classy gent with a loose silk scarf draped around his neck.

The half-knot was fancy, but also unimpressed

Because Cravat the silk scarf felt his dining companion

Was most terribly underdressed.

"What eez this? You are too spor-tee to dine at Zee Ritz!"

"But I'm a bow tie!" Bo would insist.

“When I go out, I’m really quite dressy."

"Mais non! Mon dieu! Thees will never do!" Cravat said with a whine.

"You are the wrong tie to wear out to dine!"


	12. Kama Seusstra, Part Seven

They had been struggling for a while, trying to match art to concept and figure out how a bow tie would become mobile upon animation. _Does he have legs? Does he fly?_

"Bow ties don't fly, Sam," Blaine said, getting up from the dining table where they had spread out their work hours earlier.

"Why not? They've got wings."

Blaine locked his fingers and stretched his arms straight over his head. "Please tell me it's quitting time."

"The game doesn't start for two hours."

After weeks trying to navigate Blaine's chaotic schedule, Sam told him he that he was due for a forced break. So he picked up two tickets for the Cubs game— _Do you realize how hard it is to get tickets when the Cards are in town, Blaine?_ _—_ and insisted that Blaine take a break that didn't involve flying to New York.

"It's time for some bro-bonding," Sam said. "Beer, brats and baseball."

"I thought it was beer, brats and _babes,"_ Blaine said, raising an eyebrow.

"For you, I'll stay focused on the game."

A _bleep_ signaled a text on Blaine's phone, the fifth that hour. And as was the case with each that preceded it, he dropped everything to read and tap out a response, as if Sam was no longer in the room.

"Distracted much?" Sam said.

Blaine smiled, not bothering to look up from his phone.

"As long as I've known you, I've never seen you like _this_ ," Sam said.

"Ugh huh." Blaine tapped away at the screen.

"Dropping everything for one guy..."

The phone chirped again.

"...In another time zone..."

Blaine smirked, still reading his screen.

"...Who’s becoming famous for writing porn."

Blaine raised his hand to his face, rubbing at his temple.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?" Sam stood up and walked over to Blaine, resting a hand on his shoulder and dipping his head low, angled below Blaine's chin to look up and force his attention. "I not judging. I'm guessing he's pretty special, because this is an all-new Blaine, flying out to New York at the drop of a hat. It's just, how practical is it?"

"We've been booked at some of the same events. We make it work."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

* * *

They had compared schedules almost immediately after that first weekend together.

It didn't look good.

Blaine was in the midst of a promotional campaign that had him criss-crossing the country. When he wasn't signing copies of _The Brave Little Bow Tie_ at book shop Mommy and Me days, he was behind closed doors with his management and legal team, negotiating the final details of toy tie-ins, reviewing mock-ups for the Brooks Brothers campaign and discussing concepts for a possible television or film treatment of his book.

Kurt's calendar wasn't much better. He'd finally caved and decided to hire a publicist, or at least someone to help him on social media. Trying to find the right person hadn't been a walk in the park—at least for the job candidates. He quizzed them on work histories, dating histories, on MGM musicals, on things relevant and not, legal and less so— and found them wanting.

One was too conservative. Another, too cheeky. A third dropped too many names. The fourth left him with little doubt that she would not follow instructions. All had become the subject of a midnight diatribe, an hour-long monologue detailing his angst as Blaine lay by his side, lazily running his fingers up and down Kurt's arm.

They were stretched diagonally across the king sized bed at the Atlanta Omni, hours after wrapping up separate panel discussions at a library science convention. Blaine was mellow, sated, but Kurt buzzed with an agitated, nervous energy.

"Kurt, it's their job to represent you. Spell it out in the contract, exactly what you want. No one's going to intentionally make you look like a fool," Blaine said.

"Easy to say when you have the resources of your entire publishing company at your fingertips."

He couldn't really argue. Kurt was, by and large, right. Blaine was bank to Ratite, and with that came the sort of support that few other authors received.

"You know what I would do if I were you?" Blaine said. "Find the one that you'd be comfortable having a cup of coffee with, someone that you're comfortable letting your guard down with. Then spell things out—in writing. In the mean time, we've got maybe 10 hours left in this room." He ran the tip of his nose along Kurt's neck. "Is this really how you want to spend them?"

Blaine was right. Once Kurt settled down and hired an assistant—a recent Columbia communications graduate with a strong will and an effervescent energy who was overqualified for the job—he found more time in his schedule, more flexibility to be able to free up an entire weekend, uninterrupted.

An entire weekend.

Blaine booked a car to pick him up at O'Hare. The Friday night flight was too late to plan for dinner together, but Blaine told him that he would order in, and have dinner waiting.

It was, technically. Kurt picked up the rich aromas of basil and garlic even before the door to Blaine's apartment flew open, before a hand pulled him inside, or a pair of lips pressed against his own, before he saw luggage being kicked aside and felt himself being pressed against the closing door.

He knew to expect it before Blaine opened the door. The greeting had become their norm—a fluid rush to press their bodies close, to make up for lost time. They happily skipped the restaurants, the clubs, the shows, and closed themselves off from the public to create a private world centered on a mattress and grounded in conversation, and touch, and hours of marathon sex.

Somewhere in the apartment, there was what smelled like some pretty terrific Italian take-out, and Kurt would happily wait another hour before he tasted it. He had catching up to do, the sort that no online chat could match, and that the urgent hands currently unbuttoning his shirt had deemed a priority.

Because while the flight time from New York to Chicago was relatively short, finding the time to take it was a challenge. Most of the time, they kept up through cell phones and Skype, swapping stories: crazy online fans that left them teetering between flattered and terrified, Sam's accidental flood of washing machine bubbles, Santana's latest conquest—this time, a towering redhead, a former Rockette who now had a thriving psychiatric practice. Other times they would give up the pretense of polite conversation and simply get each other off with sighs and moans and streaming video.

"Tell me our schedules line up before the next passing of Haley's Comet," Kurt said one night, stretched out on his couch with his laptop, video chatting with Blaine.

Blaine tapped briskly at his keyboard, pulling up his calendar.

"Brooklyn in September?" he said.

"Of course. Not missing my local book fair," Kurt responded. "And DC after that."

"National Book Fair? Well done, you."

"Are you going?"

"I am now."

"You're not on the agenda yet?

"I was holding off until..."

"Until you heard from me?"

"Something like that, yes."

"I'm flattered."

"And I'm lonely. I'll see you in Washington."

* * *

If Sam knew how many hours had been spent manipulating appearance schedules at book fairs across the country, he'd really lose it, Blaine thought.

Sam looked unaffected, intent on watching balls and strikes, balancing an Old Style on his knee.

"And then what? You go back to a hotel for a couple of days? Hole up in private?"

"We make the best of our time," Blaine said with a wink.

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Do you plan to go public?"

"It's complicated."

"Exactly."

"Look, I appreciate good porn as much as the next guy. Okay, maybe not exactly his brand of porn, but I get it, I do."

Sam didn't need to go further, not really. Blaine knew what was coming, and really didn't have an adequate argument to counter it.

"I know this is a big step for you and all. I mean, I was stunned when you guys made it to a month—and you seem to be happy, connected..."

"I sense a 'but' coming."

"But how long can you keep this up?" Sam said. "Blaine, if you have to be this secretive about it, then maybe you've got a problem. It's not like you're not out."

Blaine froze, just a fleeting moment before he collected himself back to his well-practiced carriage of easy grace.

"No, that's never been an issue," he said. "And I know where you're going with this. You don't have to dance around it."

He turned his head away from the play on the field, staring Sam down in a way that said, _Out with it._

"Is it the fact that Mr. Kiddie Lit is fucking the prince of online porn?" Blaine said, referencing the headline in a magazine profile that had made Kurt wince.

It was the angle they all took, of course. Sweet Midwestern boy make it big by writing smut. And there had been _dozens_ of articles since Kurt's appearance at BEA and the announcement that his stories were destined for print.

"This effects him too, you know," Sam said.

"That he's involved with a children's author?"

"That he's involved with someone who won't acknowledge their relationship. It's a relationship, right? You like him?"

Blaine took a deep breath, exhaling through his mouth.

"I might more than like him," Blaine said, his voice numb.

"Oh boy."

"Exactly."

"So what do you do?"

Blaine inched forward, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped to form a resting point for his chin.

"If I knew, I would have already done it."

The fact was, Blaine had no idea whether the relationship could go on without jeopardizing his reputation and his career. He had just signed off on his signature designs for the Brooks Brothers campaign, and the ink wasn't even dry on his extended contract with Ratite. The plush toys were apparently already on container ships from China to the U.S., just in time for the holiday shopping season. And each of these deals had strings, some of them in the form of vaguely worded morals clauses.

He didn't want to think of Kurt's work as a problem, but there was no denying that it was.

He had been pulled in ways he had never thought possible, and for perhaps the first time in his life, he felt complete. But as their sex-fueled weekends evolved into a full-fledged relationship, they began to treat their public time with caution, both aware of the risks.

Both had received enough media attention to be recognized in public, especially at the book fairs and conventions that were often the best opportunity to see each other. So they would politely greet each other at receptions, chat amiably, depart separately, then text a room number, or collect a hotel key left in a discreet envelope with a front desk clerk, to open the door to a night of privacy, a chance to rediscover each other, over and again.

Blaine knew it wasn't enough for Kurt, and it might not be enough for him.

#

 

And it might be all either one could allow.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you for reading and for the notes you've ben sending! I'm glad you're enjoying it!
> 
> A reminder that Kama Seusstra is unbeta'd, so the occasional typo of errant comma may slip through. I do try to go back and clean them up when I find them. My thanks as always to Annie, who tries to make sure I don't wander too far afield.


	13. Out at Home, Episode Three

They fell into it with unexpected ease.

Until the trade that changed everything, they assumed that they would see each other occasionally around the league, maybe hook up when one or the other was in town.

But when Andre was escorted into the Indians' clubhouse that day, the rules of the game changed, and for a brief awkward moment, they felt and tried to ignore that same gravitational pull that drew them to each other in that Wichita bar.

They eyed each other cautiously, then were forced into conversation when the pitching coach suggested that Johnny's backup fill in so that he could spend time in the bullpen with Andre, catching, learning his style and preferences.

 _I already know a few of them,_ he thought.

He thought it wold last, that awkward feeling as they walked silently together to the outfield pen, but as Andre started to pitch, one easy curveball after another, Johnny slipped into an easy groove. He started calling for more challenging pitches: the high heat, an inside slider. Andre hit them with pinpoint precision.

"Nice. I think we're gonna be okay," Johnny said, standing up from his crouch.

Andre walked up to him and took the ball from his mitt. "I could have told you that," he said with a brilliant smile.

What Johnny truly didn't expect was what happened as they became acquainted outside of the bedroom. They were far more compatible that their divergent backgrounds would have suggested, and they slipped into a relationship without really expecting or trying to.

He was certain, at least at first, that it was just the sex. It was stunningly good, the best he'd had, and it created an ache, a longing for more, and more, and more again that he had never before experienced. But there was something else at play, something more powerful that he had a hard time pinpointing, something about personalities that complimented, rather than mirrored, an ambition tempered by a pace that both were in tune with.

The could come home to Johnny's apartment and be on each other instantly, fucking without words against the wall, or toppling on to the couch together, grinding mercilessly until they found relief. It was hot, animalistic, but when they came down from their high, they found comfort wrapped in each others' arms and talking for hours.

What was stunning to Johnny was that it rarely involved talking shop. They talked baseball plenty—their jobs required it—but that was generally left at the ballpark. When baseball came up in their late night talks, it was in the context of ambitions, dreams, and the future.

"Do you ever think you'll come out?" Johnny asked one night as Andre curled in to his chest.

"Sure. The day I give my Hall of Fame induction speech."

They both knew what happened to the players who tried to be out in the pro leagues: they were announced and signed with a public relations blitz designed to make the team owner look tolerant, then sat on a bench until they were either traded or designated to a practice squad.

Andre made it clear that he had no intention of letting that happen to him. Someone else could be the gay community's Jackie Robinson, he said. He had big plans, and the talent to back them up: Cy Young Awards, the Commissioner's Trophy hoisted high above his head, and eventually, a plaque at Cooperstown. And Johnny knew that Andre could kiss those plans goodbye if he decided to be a _first_ , to be the one to try to break down the firmly entrenched walls of America's Pastime.

Both had futures in the big leagues, and neither wanted to jeopardize them, so they did what so many other athletes did in baseball, the NFL and the NBA: the quietly went about their business, enjoying the perks of being a professional athlete and looking forward to the day when they could be themselves.

A different career, and it would have been a different decision, Andre said. If he had plans to put his engineering degree to use instead of his pitching arm, he'd be out and proud.

"So, about 20 years?" Johnny asked.

"Just about," Andre said, squeezing his hand.

* * *

They agreed it was probably a good thing that they weren't assigned to be roommates on road trips.

It wasn't uncommon, after all. Pitchers and their preferred catchers often wound up sharing a room on the road. Unlike other players, the relationship between the mound and the plate was more than teamwork. It was like a marriage—built on fundamentals of trust, and fragile if the lines of communication broke down.

The two were already spending the bulk of their time together, both with the team and away from it. There were the workouts, the training, the video sessions with pitching coaches, of course. But there were also long nights in Johnny's apartment, and rushed moments in the shadows of the Victory Field parking lot long after the players and ground crews had left for the night.

As they were, they raised no suspicions. They were expected to spend time together. As far as the rest of the team and anyone else who didn't know better was concerned, that's exactly what they were doing.

It was a well-choreographed dance, a planned schedule to make it appear that they led separate lives outside of the Pittsburgh Pirates' farm club.

They made a point each day to drive to work separately, at different times, from different directions. They showed up separately for team meetings. They rarely appeared together at outside events.

Johnny cleared his garage so that Andre could discretely park his car at night, just as he cleared out space in the closet for Andre to park his clothes.

Andre's apartment—a tiny studio on the other side of town—was virtually deserted, save for the stack of mail, a bookcase and a neatly-made bed that hadn't been slept in in weeks.

There were differences between them, to be sure. Andre spent his down time either scouting the league's batters or reading the classics. Johnny enjoyed nothing more than a Saturday afternoon playing Mario Cart.

Andre was a baseball prodigy who drew scouts' attention at an early age, and turned down an athletic scholarship to Stanford because his parents felt there was more honor in accepting the academic scholarship he had also been offered to the school.

"Everyone tries to get out of this neighborhood by playing sports. How many try to make it out using their heads?" his dad had said, and it stuck. When graduation day rolled around, Andre not only had his name called in the first round of the MLB draft, but also among  the list of Stanford's honors graduates.

Johnny was the third of five athletic children of Alfred Corello, famed football coach at the University of Miami, and he grew up a multi-sport athlete. But unlike his brothers, one a linebacker for the Georgia Bulldogs and the other a defensive end for the Baltimore Ravens, Johnny Corello knew early on that his solid frame would be used to block the plate, not the line of scrimmage. He was big and burly, and occasionally mistaken for dumb. He was willing to let people believe that, especially players for other teams, because some day he would use that to his advantage on the field, where he was a master tactician. 

*  * *

So long as it wasn't the night before a game, they would fall into bed and start back at the beginning, evoking that same feeling from that night in Wichita over and over again.

On his days between starts, Andre would drive back to Johnny's apartment, run a bath, chill some beer, and rub Johnny's aching limbs until he melted into Andre's body.

Extra-inning games were the worst. Fourteen innings in the summer heat against a stacked lineup from Toledo left him silent, exhausted and face-down on his mattress. Andre removed Johnny’s clothes and kneaded his shoulder blades, then his lower back, then his thighs.

"Better?" he said.

"Mmmm."

"Or would this help?" Andre slid his hands up to Johnny's ass, massaging each cheek and dotting his hipbones with kisses.

"Mmmm."

"I think maybe what you need to is get your mind off those aching muscles," Andre said. He spread the cheeks apart, and ran his lips down to Johnny's hole, dipping, tasting, until Johnny moaned. "That better?" Andre mumbled.

"Mmmhmm."

Sure, the team had trainers for that, but trainers don't generally finish a massage the way Andre Jones could.

The road was another matter. Rooming with other players may have protected their privacy, but it also tried Johnny's patience.

There were days when it was just too much, when Johnny was so in tune with Andre's every move—dictating it, then watching it play out with a pinpoint pitch—that he couldn't take his eyes off Andre once he walked back in to the clubhouse.

On the road, they couldn't just tuck feelings away for an hour or two and wait it out until they were secure in the privacy of Johnny's apartment.

He would catch himself, usually, and shift his gaze somewhere else. He had spent seven innings in the sweltering sun of BB&T Ballpark in Charlotte, watching the sweat drip down Andre's neck, watching the beauty of that long, lithe body deliver strike after strike.

When it was over, Johnny walked into the visitor's clubhouse to see Andre peeling the last of his sweat-soaked uniform and turn toward the showers. He could sense himself staring at Andre's muscled back. He knew he needed to stop.

"Hey, Johnny-O! You sun-stroked or something? Need some water?" Lou, and ancient trainer for the club with an encyclopedic knowledge of the International League, snapped Johnny out of his daze.

Andre turned around, just briefly, to shoot Johnny a look. _Don't. Not here._

 _"_ Yeah Lou, thanks. Kind of zoning out for a minute there. Some water'd be great."

He took his time in the showers and soaking in a therapy tub, watching players depart for the team hotel and trying to collect his thoughts.

"Johnny! You're going to miss the bus," Lou's voice called into the deserted locker room.

"It's okay. I'll catch a cab, Lou. I just want to soak a little longer."

Johnny slid into the tub and closed his eyes, until water slapped at his face.

"What the..."

"Hey. Don't hit. It's just me."

Andre, dressed and refreshed, had stayed behind.

"Late again, I see."

"Yeah, I just needed to cool down," Johnny said.

Andre looked him in the eye.

"So I noticed."

"Sorry about that."

"Hey, you know I like it, but the locker room..."

"...is out of bounds, I know. It's just...road trips. Road trips suck. I've been watching you all day and all I could think was how much I wanted to get my hands on you."

Andre looked over to the door, and then across to the other side of the room, before leaning in and kissing Johnny gently on the lips.

"I'm pretty sure we're the last ones here." He kissed Johnny again. "What do you think about getting out of the tub?"

Johnny followed Andre to the back of the locker room, a dim corner far away from the door and shielded from it by tall rows of red metal cabinets. Andre pulled his shirt off over his head roughly and fumbled with the zipper on his slacks.

"Lube's in my gym bag," he said.

Johnny's eyes grew wide. He froze where he stood.

Andre laughed. "We're alone. Now take off your towel and fuck me."

Within minutes, Johnny had Andre face-first, spread eagle against the lockers, gripping his hands while their bodies slapped together. Each thrust reverberated through the steel casings, clanging again, and again, and again.

"Johnny, give me your hand," Andre panted out. "Need your hand."

 _CLANK_.

From the far side of the room, something sounded like it had moved.

Johnny stopped instantly, deep inside Andre, holding him tight around the waist.

"Did you hear that?" he whispered.

"Just be still," Andre said.

They heard one last squeak down the hall, and a click, possibly a door shutting, then nothing.

"I think we better get out of here."

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks as always to Annie (iconicklaine) for giving this a directional read. Kama Seusstra is otherwise unbeta'd.


	14. Kama Seusstra, Part Eight

October

Most anywhere else, it would have been called summer. Stepping through the automatic doors from the baggage claim at LAX felt like walking into a self-cleaning oven. But it was October in Los Angeles, and the Santa Ana winds snaked across the city, leaving a hot trail of dust in their wake.

And as if the heat and wind weren't bad enough, Kurt seemed to have found the only cab driver in Los Angeles who absolutely refused to roll up his windows and turn on the air conditioning.

Kurt suggested, then asked, and finally insisted that the cabbie turn on the air as they languished on the northbound 405, stuck in the slow crawl of the afternoon commute.

"The breeze is nice," the cabbie said, tuning him out to check an incoming text message.

"There are hurricane force gusts blowing dirt in the car," Kurt said. "Do you want a tip or don't you?"

The driver snarled as he hit the controls to roll up the windows and adjusted the air. By the time the reached the winding hotel driveway 20 minutes later, the air in the car had nearly cooled down.

A valet opened the cab door, and a new wave of heat swept through the taxi. Kurt glared and shook his head.

"Welcome to the Chateau Marmont," the man said, briefly looking Kurt over. "It's cooler inside. Checking in?"

"Yes," Kurt said. "One bag."

His spirits would have improved had Blaine responded to one of his calls or texts between the airport and West Hollywood, but he was uncharacteristically silent. _Maybe his meetings ran long_ , Kurt thought.

Blaine had checked in to the hotel the day before. They had been able to coordinate West Coast meetings, Blaine with studio animators and producers, Kurt with a series of production teams pitching him ideas to land _Out at Home,_ or him, or both, on television. Their representatives didn't need to know that the reason they were so insistent on scheduling the travel for the first week in October was only minimally related to their own schedules.

Kurt stepped up to the reception counter and gave his name. A brief check of the computer, and the chilly blonde behind the desk warmed up. "Mr. Hummel? Your assistant Devon has already checked in. It's the poolside bungalow right here," she said, using a Sharpie to circle a building on a paper map of the hillside property. Would you like assistance with your luggage?"

Kurt shook his head and reached for his suitcase. He could tolerate a few more minutes of misery.

He glanced quickly at the property map and wheeled his bag across the lobby and toward the densely-landscaped pool enclosure. Even late in the day, even with winds gusting through the hills, the patio was thick with chiseled bodies taking in the waning hours of the afternoon sun. A feat for the eyes which he was happy to ignore when he looked across the patio to see Blaine walking towards him—looking tanned, relaxed and very Hollywood behind dark tortoiseshell Wayfarers.

His easy pace looked confident, happy, and painfully sexy.

He waved from across the pool, and picked up his pace until he caught up to Kurt. He reached down for the suitcase, briefly connecting their hands. "I can take it from here," he said, his face blossoming into a bright smile. "Welcome to L.A."

They walked side-by-side along a narrow courtyard path, bumping shoulders with every other step. Kurt couldn't help but look over from time to time."Going incognito?" he asked.

"Hmm?"

"The glasses, the hotel, the pseudonym? Swanky, Mr. Anderson."

"Someone else's tab," Blaine said. "But I might have upgraded. This is it."

He opened the door to what the hotel called a bungalow. In reality, it was a small home, mid-century modern chic, with a private courtyard and direct access to the pool.

"Oh, thank _god,_ air conditioning! I'm so hot."

Blaine's breath brushed hot against his ear. "Yes, you are," he whispered, placing a soft kiss on Kurt's cheek.

Kurt shook his head, and quietly took in the room from the doorway. Blaine's cheesy come-ons had grown on him. It was possible that he might even enjoy them, he thought.

"You should go for a swim. The pool is _sweet._ "

"Is that where you were today?"

"I have the tan lines to prove it."

Kurt closed the door behind him, and turned to wrap his arms around Blaine's neck.

"Then prove it."

"I missed you," Blaine said. He pulled Kurt close and kissed him deeply, his tongue curving to trace Kurt's upper teeth. He pulled back, with a last, chaste kiss. "And I'd like to do more, but I ordered room service when you sent that last text. It should be here soon."

Kurt's face drooped into a pout. "I thought we'd go out?"

Blaine took his hand and walked him to the sliding glass door that led to a sheltered patio.

"Come here. Look. Listen," he said, opening the door.

Kurt looked out over the candy-colored horizon off the Hollywood Hills. To one side, parkland, and the soundtrack of coyotes howling in the distance. To the other side, the city, and the distant thump of traffic on the Sunset Strip. The bungalow, trapped between them, felt like an oasis.

"Do I have time for a shower?" Kurt asked.

"Maybe 20 minutes."

Kurt pulled Blaine by the hand back in to the bungalow.

"That's enough."

* * *

It took something special, a great motivation, to convince Santana Lopez that life was worth living before 8:30 a.m. And it took the promise of profit to convince her to get up, shower and slither her way in to one of her skin=tight dresses before 8:30 a.m.—Pacific Time. But this day was starting early, possibly ending late, and would be packed with potentially lucrative deals—both for her client and herself.

So she grabbed an extra hot Americano on her way out of her Westside hotel, flipped on the navigation and met Kurt at a mid-Wilshire cafe early, _too early_ , in order to pregame their day.

"Whose idea was it to eat outside," she said, lifting her hair up with one hand and fanning at her neck with the other. "Is it ever fall in this city?"

Kurt kissed her cheek in greeting. "I think it goes straight from summer to spring. It took a little getting used to, but it's okay this morning."

" _Someone_ sounds mellow this morning. Downright _sated,_ even _."_

She arched her eyebrow and smiled lasciviously. She knew who else was in town.

"Ssshhh," Kurt said, laughing and taking her by the arm. "I thought we were here to talk business."

"Your sex life is much more interesting—for a change."

They had a full calendar of meetings, a series of back-to-back, face-to-faces, several months' worth of requests for Kurt's time wrapped up in to two days of travel that could make his financial future.

Blaine, already having gone through this and now navigating his second round of promotional meetings, offered him two words of advice: "Choose wisely."

Santana had already outlined the anticipated proposals in texts, in phone calls, in memos. Kurt knew roughly what to expect, from tantalizing to potentially ridiculous. There were some that left him dubious, including their first meeting of the day, but Santana insisted he sit through it, because the potential residuals were breathtaking.

The production company's proposal was simple: a reality show about Kurt's life. Cherubic-faced Midwestern kid becomes king of the porn novelists. They had suggested titles for the show, each of which made him cringe: _Looking for Love, Love Line, Ball Four._

Led by a fast-talking producer with unwashed hair and $500 loafers, the first team rattled off dozens of ideas, most of which involved "colorful cohorts" and "peeks into Kurt's private life".

The thought they could land it on Logo, or Bravo, or maybe even MTV _if the cultural zeitgeist aligned._

Kurt did his best to look attentive, to not appear to be disgusted. He angled his folio so they couldn't see that he had spent the hour doodling pictures of bow ties, first with dots, then with stripes, then with little hearts, and then drawing Blaine's name in elaborate lettering.

And when their appointed hour ended, he stood up, shook hands, and smiled politely—holding the expression right up until the moment he and Santana cleared the office building's front door, he let her have it.

"WHAT. THE. HELL? What was that? And more importantly, why did I just spend an hour in there?"

"That's just the proposal."

"No."

"You could set guidelines, limits."

"Absolutely not."

"Their shows are bank, Kurt. Can you say _Kardashian_?"

"Oh my god, no!"

"Do you know how much the Kardashians make?"

"There is no price tag on self-respect, Santana. My answer is no."

"Just think about it."

"My life is private."

"And you don't want them finding out about your fuck buddy?"

"MY WHAT?!?"

"The man you left behind at the hotel this morning..."

"My boyfriend."

"He's also your secret. I get it. We can tell them that anything with him is off-limits."

"Anything in my life is off-limits, as far as I'm concerned. Next?"

The other meetings ran smoothly, productively, even. Some of them even made sense. The best of the lot, the one he had high hope for, involved adapting _Out at Home_ for television.

Premium cable could handle the content—HBO and Showtime were already pushing those boundaries—though Kurt wasn't averse to dialing back the sex down a little.

If he was being perfectly honest with himself, he would welcome it.

What had started out as a joke, a game, had taken a decidedly more serious tone as _Out at Home_ gained notoriety, and that _Prince of Porn_ headline had just about put him over the top. He was quickly growing weary of the porn monicker, and he wanted readers—and just possibly viewers—to see him as something more than just a guy who could write a sex scene. He could tell a story, and he wished that someone would pick up on that.

Blaine had. He believed in _Out at Home_ , and waxed rhapsodic about the Johnny and Andre's story. _Their romance_ , as Blaine had insisted in describing it.

And if Kurt could soften his edges, nudge his image away from the porn and toward the _romance_ of the story, just maybe he would be less of a liability to the relationship that had consumed his thoughts, and his heart. 

*  * *

"I need to make reservations for dinner tonight, something special."

Blaine fished through his wallet as he spoke to the concierge. He was in a rush to get to his morning meeting. There was no time for subtlety.

The concierge at the Chateau Marmont knew the drill.

"Something romantic? Quiet?"

Blaine paused for a moment, thought about it.

"No," he said. "What's the hottest restaurant you think you can score a a table for two for tonight?"

He pulled a wad of bills out of his wallet and began folding them neatly.

"I have a few ideas," the concierge said. "Give me your cell phone number, and I'll send you details within the hour."

With that, Blaine shook his hand, transferring over the sizable tip.

If Kurt wanted a night out, Kurt was going to get a night out.

*  * *

They met up at the restaurant at 7 p.m., a noisy, cavernous Melrose hotspot that required either good contacts or advance planning for a dinner reservation. Run by a young, tattoo-covered celebrity chef who had been featured on Food Network, _Tat_ featured a fresh from the market, stripped-down menu that had become a magnet for young, chic Hollywood.

"I feel like I need a makeover—and a bullhorn," Kurt said, leaning across the table to avoid shouting.

"Do you want to go somewhere quieter?"

"Are you kidding? Not a chance! How'd you get the reservation?"

"Let's just say I was motivated," Blaine said, reaching over and squeezing his hand.

It was a rare moment of public affection by Blaine, and perhaps the first time in a place so crowded. The gesture touched Kurt. While they had sometimes danced around the subject, Kurt was painfully aware that public displays of affection were complicated for them, to say the least.

"You sure this is okay? It's kind of a celebrity place."

"And the hotel isn't?"

While it wasn't as obvious as the Hollywood Hills hotel, where paparazzi camped out in cars outside the valet station each evening, _Tat_ was new and trendy enough to draw a hot clientele that was could draw cameras.

"Besides, that's to our advantage. Whose going to care about a couple of writers in a crowd like this? Let's not worry about that."

They ordered a tasting menu—five courses, each paired with a different wine or liqueur. They talked shop for awhile, comparing notes on meetings that would see them both extended their work to new mediums. But by the time dessert rolled around—a flash-frozen nitrogen ice cream bomb cracked open table side by the waiter—their volume climbed and inhibitions dropped.

They held hands between courses, Kurt running his thumb up and down Blaine's wrist, then mirroring the movement below the table with his foot.

"Take me home, Blaine Anderson."

"Home?"

"Home for the next twelve hours, at least, until you have to catch your flight."

They stood up to leave, and Blaine linked arms, curling in to Kurt's side. "I wish it could be longer."

"Me too," Kurt said. But since it isn't, I'm going to spend the entirety of the cab ride telling you in _graphic detail_ what I intend to do to you when we get back to the room."

Emboldened by alcohol, he kissed Blaine as they stood on the sidewalk, and made good on his promise within moments of climbing in to the back seat of the taxi, resting his head on Blaine's shoulder.

"I can't wait to get my mouth on you, all of you. I'm going to start up here," Kurt whispered, nipping at Blaine's ear, then kissing his jaw. "Your neck—I'm going to need some time there, because my tongue fits that groove under your Adam's Apple so well,  it just wants to linger."

Blaine closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and rolled his head back against the seat.

"Kurt..."

"Don't worry, I'm going to take care of you, touch you, feel you. I want to stroke you. I want to feel you get hard in my hand."

_"Kurt..."_

"I want to spread you out on the bed and taste every inch of you: your chest, your stomach, your cock. I want to suck on that sweet, sweet head until you can't stand it, then I want to take you deep, let you fuck my mouth from below."

"Fuck, Kurt..."

"Not yet. I want to take you to the brink, make you cry out. I want you grabbing my hair and forcing me to swallow you down, and over, and over, and before you're done, I want you to paint my lips with your come and kiss it off me, taste yourself on me."

"Holy hell, Kurt..."

"And then I want to turn you over. I want to get my mouth on you, on that ass of yours that drives me crazy. You know what it does to me, right? You know how when I first saw that ass at that party that first night, I had to have it. I'm still that way, Blaine, every damn time."

"Oh fuck Kurt, please..."

"I'm going to hold you, squeeze you, then I'm going to open you up, get my mouth on you again and my tongue, my tongue's going to be so hungry for you. It's gonna circle that hole and it's gonna want in, Blaine. _I want in_. So I'm going to dip my tongue..."

"Here you go, Chateau Marmont," the cabbie said, a little louder than he needed, pulling up to the hotel's valet line. "That'll be $18.50."

Kurt had left Blaine so flushed and hard, so flustered, that he had forgotten to tell the driver to bypass the front entrance to the hotel and head directly to their private drive. It would be an awkward, slow and painful walk back to the bungalow.

With a wink, Kurt clambered out of the car, and held out a hand to help Blaine to his feet, and planted a sweet kiss to Blaine's cheek as he took his hand and led him toward the lobby. 

*  * *

Blaine pried himself from Kurt's arms early the next morning. He had one last, lengthy meeting before catching a late-afternoon flight to London for his first international promotion of _The Brave Little Bow Tie._ It was a short but important trip for the book's European launch—big enough that Rod Remington would be flying out to meet him.

He spent much of the flight asleep, some of it watching a movie and probably too much of it daydreaming about how easy it would have ben to spend one more night in Los Angeles—just long enough for Kurt to fly back with him.

By the time the flight touched down at Heathrow, he had caught up on his sleep, but thought up a laundry list of what-ifs that he didn't have the answers to.

He turned on his phone and waited to see the inevitable _How was the flight?_ message from Kurt.

Instead, he found a dozen texts from Rod, all looking very much the same: and web link to a particularly vile celebrity gossip site, and an all caps message:

CALL ME THE INSTANT YOU TOUCH DOWN. -RR

 

* * * 

 

 


	15. The Brave Little Bow Tie, Part Four

"Ladies and gentlemen! It's... the Teddies!"

Theodore was quite the TV host

Introducing pop stars of whom he could boast

Were the most famous, most fashionable, most scream-worthy of all.

And Bo, round his neck, was completely enthralled.

"I love to sing! I love to dance! Can I share your stage?"

"Hey, little tie. You belong with the host

"Or maybe backstage, but don't stand too close.

"The stage is the place for performers to shine

"In ties that reflect the height of design.

"A little bow tie doesn't belong on the stage.

And just then, little Bo

So full of life, so full of joy

Felt his spirits fall.

"Is there no place for me, no place at all?"

Though adventures galore, it had become quite clear,

That no matter what character he played—

Engineer, auctioneer, racketeer, bombardier—

Little Bow the Tie did not fit in.

He drooped, sinking down below Theodore's chin.

Hoping that someday he would find a place to fit in.


	16. Kama Seusstra, Part Nine

**_KIDDIE PORN_ **

**_Publishing Makes Strange Bedfellows_ **

_This should make day care interesting... What do you get when you combine America's darling of children's books and The Prince of Online Porn? A hot night in West Hollywood, that's what!_

_Last seen together at a book conference last May, children's author Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel, whose gay erotica is reportedly ready to heat up a cable channel near you, were caught getting cozy at a West Hollywood hot spot last night._

_After leaving trendy Tat restaurant together, they were spotted entering the Chateau Marmont hotel._

_Whoa! Watch those hands, Hummel!_

_Chicago-based Anderson was in Los Angeles working on the film treatment for his hit kiddie book,_ The Brave Little Bow Tie _. New Yorker Hummel was reportedly on the West Coast to test the waters for bringing his baseball sex romp_ Out at Home _to late night cable._

_We don't think we need to ask what base he got to_ _—looks like someone scored!_

_Hot, hot, hot, fellas!!_

*  * *

"Why is this the first I've heard about this?"

Blaine was still bleary-eyed from the ten-hour flight from LAX to Heathrow, but Rod Remington's greeting woke him like a dive into a cold pool.

"Hi Rod."

"Did you read it? Did you check the link I sent you? Is it true? Never mind. Doesn't matter. What matters is how we handle it."

"I'm sorry, what?"

Blaine waited to return Rod's messages until after he was out of the airport and comfortably in the care of the car service that had been booked to drive him to his hotel.

"Your European book launch? All those interviews you have over the next couple of days? Your talking points just changed," Rod said. "We have to figure out what they are. I've got our team on it."

"What? Rod, can you back up? I mean, I don't even know how this happened or what's going on. I just went to dinner with Kurt and—"

"You're not fooling anybody, my friend. Have you been on Twitter yet?"

_Oh shit._

Rod didn't wait for the answer.

"You're trending."

_Oh shit. Oh shit._

Blaine pulled a tablet out of his satchel and opened up Twitter.

**_Trending:_ **

  *     **_#DatAss_**
  *     **_#MarryMe1D_**
  *     **_#KiddiePorn_**



"Oh, shit."

"Now you get it," Rod said. "It's not just some snarky gossip site. It's the entire goddamn Internet."

Blaine could feel the blood rush from his face, the life drift out of his body. They're writers, for god's sake, not actors or producers or anyone one of hundreds of people that Hollywood's gossip professionals should care about.

"It's not quite so bad on Tumblr. They seem to be cheering you on. Oh, and they want pics." The tone in Remington's voice made it clear that he considered that just as bad as the Twitter response.

"I don't understand," Blaine finally said, his voice lifeless. "Why us? Why would a gossip site care about a couple of authors?"

"Do I really need to explain this to you, Blaine?" The edge was slipping from Rod's voice, but not by much. "You are the face of children's literature, and he's the—"

"Stop right there," Blaine said.

_Kurt. Oh shit. Had he seen this yet? Had he been forced to react to it? Was this going to hurt his chances with the TV deal?_

He checked his messages again. Nothing from Kurt.

"Has anyone talked to Kurt?"

"We've reached out to his rep," Remington said. "But that's all we can do. This isn't something where you can exactly have a united front. Right now, we have to make sure that no one has a reason to exercise their morals clause, understand? We have to be thinking about you, _do you understand_?"

Blaine sat in stony silence focused on the back of the driver's head.

"Blaine?"

"Yes?"

"Look, message me when you get settled at the hotel. We'll get some coffee and hash this out before your first press stop."

*  * *

Kurt awoke to a ringing phone. Blaine usually just texted when he landed after leaving him, but considering he had to leave so early, he probably wanted to talk.

Except it was Santana.

"You online yet?"

"Huh? I'm just waking up."

"Get on your laptop now. I'm sending you a link. You've been a naughty boy. And apparently, naughty boys get spanked."

* * *

What was to be a whirlwind of interviews promoting the launch of _The Brave Little Bow Tie_ in Europe unraveled into the longest 48 hours of Blaine's life.

He had planned to talk about his book, and about children learning to be true to themselves. Instead, he found himself on the receiving end of a barrage of intrusive, obnoxious questions about his social life.

_Do you think any parents are going to want to buy a book by someone sleeping with a porn star?_

"Mr. Hummel is a friend, and I think the term you're looking for is 'author'."

_Will you publish a crossover where Bo is used to tie someone up?_

"Well, _The Brave Little Bow Tie_ is a children's book, so I think it's safe to say that's not going to happen."

_All the sex in his stories is pretty saucy. Weren't you a little intimidated? Learn anything new?_

"We're done here."

Blaine tried to cut the trip short, but Rod convinced him to stick it out, ride the wave and win the media back. "You don't do that by going in to hiding. You go out there, you promote your book and you politely redirect when they start asking about Los Angeles," he said.

"Did you _hear_ those questions, Rod? This is worse than back home!"

"Welcome to the British tabloids. You're almost done. And when you finish, we're booking you a new flight home with a stop in New York so you can spend an afternoon meeting with our crisis communications team."

Blaine tried and failed to call Kurt several times before catching a flight to JFK. He was loathe to discuss what had happened via text, but finally succumbed as he stepped on board the flight to New York.

_Blaine_ : Coming home via NYC. Will you be there?

_Blaine_ : Please be there.

_Blaine_ : We need to talk.

Moments before passengers were told to shut down electronic devices, he got his answer.

_Kurt_ : I'll be home.

With Rod Remington virtually glued to his side for the duration of the flight and the commute from JFK to Midtown, he wasn't able to call Kurt again until after he checked in to his hotel. When Blaine finally got him on the phone, the conversation was clipped.

"I'm at The Standard again," he said.

"Our hotel."

"Yes, our hotel."

The line went silent for a moment, then Kurt spoke in a hushed, somber tone. "You could have stayed here."

"It's a quick trip. Just a layover for one night so I could meet with Rod's team."

"You just spent two days with Rod in London."

"Can we talk about this over dinner? Can you come here?"

"Sure."

"Room 601."

Blaine fidgeted and paced. He couldn't settle down to read. He wouldn't go on the Internet, not yet. He knew what awaited him in his email. He just couldn't face it all yet: the well-wishes, the advice, the fishing excursions. So instead he stood by the window, looking out over the Hudson and the pedestrians strolling the High Line below.

It may have been as much as an hour before he heard a soft rap on the door.

He looked through the peephole before opening the door to see Kurt looking tired and somber, his hands tucked into his jeans' pockets, his shoulders slumped.

He walked into the room with a "Hi" and a wisp of a kiss to Blaine's cheek, then collapsed into a corner of the couch.

"So, it's been quite a week," Kurt said. He rested his elbows on his knees and folded his hands in front of him. When Blaine settled in next to him, he mirrored the movement.

"It started out well," Blaine said.

Kurt smiled, fleetingly. "It did. What did they say over at the Remington Group?"

"They had me meet with their crisis communications team."

Kurt turned to face Blaine. His eyes were narrowed, but not enough for Blaine to miss that they looked bloodshot.

"So I'm a crisis now?"

"Not you, just—"

"Let me guess. They told you to break it off."

"No, I'm not... They..." Blaine stammered, and reached for Kurt's hand.

"They're looking out for your career, and this whole paparazzi thing didn't do it any favors."

Blaine fished for words, shaking his head. "They told me to lay low for awhile, to be discreet."

"My guess is that wasn't their first option," Kurt said. He pulled his hand out of Blaine's.

"No, it wasn't."

"God, Blaine. All this because we went out to dinner?"

"We did more than eat out, Kurt. And you saw the pictures, and the story."

"Somebody at that hotel needs to get fired."

"I was an idiot staying there," Blaine said.

Kurt stood, and paced across the room. He stood by the window, hands on hips, then wheeled around to face Blaine again.

"We didn't do anything wrong!"

Kurt's voice picked up steam, the anger that had built over the past 48 hours slipping out. "We were holding hands. I kissed you. They called our relationship _kiddie porn_ , Blaine! It's not like we were fucking on the front lawn of the Chateau Marmont."

"It doesn't matter."

"Like hell it doesn't! Who gives two fucks about a couple of writers—especially in LA? Aren't we allowed to live our lives?"

"That's pretty much what I said to Rod."

"And?"

"He said that the public isn't ready for that." Blaine’s voice was a flat monotone of resignation, the result of hours of meeting with a team that insisted that the best way to protect his future was to take part of it away from him.

"He said we're both too high profile. He said there was no way for me to do this without risking everything, that parents who buy children's books aren't ready for that."

"Do you agree with him?"

Blaine stared at the coffee table in front of him, silent.

"You do, don't you?"

"I don't know."

"I think you do. That's why you always want to stay in, isn't it? I thought it was me at first, that you just wanted to spend every minute we had together, well, together. I'm out. You're out. Yet for the first time in my life, I feel like I'm in the closet," Kurt said.

"That's not what I want—"

"But that wasn't everything, was it? You can't be seen with me, not the way I want, at least. And I want more. I don't want to be some dirty little secret."

"You're not a dirty—"

"But I am your secret, Blaine. And I can't take that any more. See, the thing is, I'm in this. I'm all in. I didn't expect that to happen, but it has. I want more than this, and that's not going to happen."

For the first time since they started talking, Blaine turned to face Kurt, measuring his words and his eyes, trying in vain to connect.

"Kurt?"

"Santana warned me. Right from the start. She knew. She told me to enjoy the moment because that's all it was going to be." Kurt choked on his words, and took a deep breath, then self-corrected, and smiled. "Except she said it a lot more colorfully."

"Kurt, I don't want..."

"I get, I really do, Blaine. This is your career. Look how far you've come in a year. You're _right there._ It's all happening for you right now, just like it'd starting to happen for me. But for you, this... this... thing..."

"Relationship, Kurt. This _relationship_ —"

"Thank you. Yes, this _relationship_ is toxic for you, or at least for your career. I get it. You could lose everything you've built for yourself."

"I'm not the architect of this," Blaine said flatly.

"Yes, you are. And it's what everybody dreams of when they get in to this business. I get it. There's really nowhere we can go from here."

Kurt's voice had transitioned from angry to shaky to certain.

"It's been a great run, Blaine."

"Don't say it."

"It's been so good. And I'm so proud of you, of what you've accomplished, but I'm realizing that there's a part of me that wishes that your career hadn't exploded, or that novel of yours had taken off, because a guy who writes erotica for a living doesn't have a future with America's darling of kiddie lit." Kurt sat by Blaine's side again and folded their hands together. "If you want your career to die and die fast, you stay with me. You can't be who you are and be with me.

"It’s been so good, but it isn't enough, not for me, and I don't think it ever can be."

Blaine shut his eyes, and let Kurt's fingers twine between his. "I don't want to lose you."

The words fell off Kurt's tongue like a last breath. "You already have."

Blaine stared at Kurt, dumbstruck. He could feel pressure building behind his eyes. As he opened his mouth to try to force down air, his lower lip quivered.

Kurt pulled him into a tight embrace, holding him tight. Blaine nuzzled his shoulder, silent; he was sure that Kurt could feel his tears against his skin.

"You love me," Kurt said. "I know you do, even if we never said it." He craned his neck to kiss Blaine's hair. "I love you, too."

*  * *

How Kurt could have allowed himself to stay eluded him. He should have walked away   right then, right after he broke up with Blaine.

He should have said we're done, wished him well, and left.

He should have made a clean break, buckled down for a month of heartbreak, then found someone new.

He certainly shouldn't have said _I love you._

And he definitely shouldn't have spent the night with the man he had just said goodbye to.

But he couldn't help himself.

It's not as if they'd argued, after all. They were ending it on good terms, out of necessity, of practicality. It had to end.

Whether it concluded at seven pm or seven am was really irrelevant at this point.

So when Blaine said, "Don't go," he didn't. He slid his lips over Blaine's in what should have been a gentle kiss, a brief moment of contact, a chance to show he cared. But as his mouth opened and the kiss deepened, Kurt didn't have it in him to walk away _._

Not quite yet.

So he stood up, took Blaine's hand, and led him to the bed.

One last time.

He refused to rush himself, He took in every detail: the pop of each button he slipped open on Blaine's shirt, the click of a belt buckle, the gentle vibration of a zipper releasing itself, tooth by tooth.

And as he slipped the shirt off Blaine's shoulders, he leaned his head in and whispered, "We have a few more hours. Let's make the best of them," and fell into an embrace that didn't release its grip until close to sunrise.

He had considered a long note, a last goodbye, but couldn't find the words. So on a pad of hotel notepaper that sat by the telephone, he wrote simply, "I love you."

He placed the note on top of Blaine's suitcase, took a last look at the man sleeping so peacefully in the bedroom, and left.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks as always to Annie, to whom I promise to lay off the ellipses.


	17. Out at Home, Episode Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting near the end of these stories, and I sat down this morning to look at the outlines and the calendars, and I decided to make some adjustments so that each story could end on the final day. That means that next week, there will only be one update.
> 
> There is also a minor hitch this week, caused by a brutal work schedule. This week's segment for Kama Seusstra still needs some attention before I consider it ready to post, so I will be holding it until mid-week. Today, I'll be posting the next segment of "Out at Home" on its own. 
> 
> Finally, a note last week prompted me to think its time to remind everyone that this is an unbeta'd work and the final chapters, in particular, are being created during a personal work crunch where I am working 12-15 hours/day, seven days a week. It's important to me personally to finish this on the timeline I committed to, and to finish each week with a fairly polished document. But if the pacing is not quite what you think it should be, or you think there should be more than there is, please remember that this is not a story that's being reviewed by three or four sets of eyes before it lands here. It gets a quick glance from iconicklaine, who will be the first to admit that her contribution is neither editing nor beta'ing, but just a quick impression. As much as I would like to devote more time to it, Kama Seusstra is pretty much a draft, because that is all the time I am able to squeeze out of the madhouse that is my current schedule. 
> 
> For those who have been following along and sending me notes, thanks so much. Those notes keep us writing, even when we feel like hanging it up.
> 
> * * *

It started with a slap on the ass.

It wasn't the sort of thing that would usually get much attention in baseball. Ass slapping was a time-honored "attaboy" tradition in the world of sports.

Strike out the side? Slap that ass.

Make a diving grab for an out? Slap that ass.

Hit an inside slider out of the park with two out in the bottom of the ninth? Absolutely, positively, slap that ass.

But the slap on Andre Jones' ass at the end of a steamy Sunday afternoon shutout was more than the customary attaboy moment. It was subtle and it was fleeting, but it definitely lingered a beat longer than Andre was comfortable with—especially in front of ten thousand fans and twenty-three teammates at Victory Field.

And especially because it wasn't by the hand of Johnny Corello.

Andre had never been sharper than he was against Pawtucket that afternoon. With Pirates executives in the stands, he threw a complete game shutout—almost unheard of in the minor leagues—and struck out ten batters in the process.

He and Johnny had found a rhythm to their play; a give and take that most pitcher-catcher duos achieved after seasons, not months, together. But they took it to another level in the last of a three-game series against the Red Sox, as if anticipating each other's moves, achieving the same synchronous rhythm they had already found in the bedroom.

Sometime between the College World Series and Andre's trade to Indianapolis, he had convinced himself that sex was off the menu within 24 hours of a game. It was a rule, an absolute, a non-negotiable rite that Johnny nonetheless tried to talk him out of on a regular basis.

But it didn't matter a bit if Johnny begged, pleaded, groveled or attempted bribery; the answer was an irrefutable no.

"I can't afford tired legs," Andre would say.

"Then stay on your back," Johnny countered.

It had gotten to the point of becoming a game—the anticipation, the build-up, the buzzing energy channeled into Andre's next start, both of them knowing that once the final pitch was thrown, Andre would give himself over, let Johnny have everything he wanted and more.

So when Andre closed out the ninth inning with the Pawtucket's powerful right fielder going down swinging, Johnny yanked off his catcher's mask and started to rush the mound, looking to meet somewhere in the middle. But Andre hadn't taken a step before he felt the warm press of a palm against his ass.

He wheeled around to see Louis "Lolo" Martinez, a recently acquired short stop who came to the Indians as part of a four-player deal.

"Looking good, Jones," he said, a grin on his face.

Andre swore he could feel the briefest squeeze just as Johnny approached the mound.

"Here you go," Johnny said, handing Andre the game ball. "This one belongs to you."

Andre nodded, and took the ball in his glove. "Let's go," he said.

But Martinez hustled to catch up, and walked alongside them. "You two got plans? Staying late again tonight?" He smiled, and Andre's face froze.

"We always watch video before a new series," Johnny said, his voice rushed. "Get familiar with the batters."

"Scouting sessions, eh?" Martinez winked. "Maybe the three of us can scout together some time."

"Umm..." Andre's voice cracked before he could say anything intelligible.

"Just pitcher-catcher strategy, Martinez. We go through it in the team meetings."

Martinez was a sinewy infielder with decent speed but no self-control in the batter's box. In the month since his trade to the team, he had kept to the gym at the ballpark and to himself outside of it. Andre had sensed Martinez's gaze a couple of times, but thought little of it—until now.

The short stop pulled in close, as if sharing a secret, and whispered in Andre's ear. "I'd like to get in on one of these strategy sessions."

And then he took off at a trot to the locker room, not looking back.

Johnny and Andre slowed their pace, sharing a cautious glance.

"Fuck," Johnny said, slapping his fist in his mitt.

 

*  * *

Any plans Andre had for a slow cool down after the game evaporated the moment Martinez propositioned him—or _them_ —after the game. He dressed rapidly, grabbed his locker bag and bolted from the clubhouse.

Johnny took a few moments longer, appearing to linger around his locker, chatting up a couple of teammates before burning rubber out of the parking lot.

He got to his apartment about five minutes after Andre had let himself in. He stood by the window, hands on his hips, staring at the street below.

"So that sound in the locker room the other night..." Johnny began.

"...Wasn’t a figment of our imaginations," Andre finished. His face was locked, distant, absorbed in thought.

Johnny walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around Andre's waist, tucking his cheek against his shoulder. "What do you want to do?"

Andre ran his hands down Johnny's thick forearms until fingers reached fingers. He locked their hands together and took a deep breath.

"What _can_ we do? It's not like we can convince him there's nothing there. He saw. Does he stay quiet if we shut him out?"

"Or do you keep him mum by letting him in?" Johnny added.

"What do you mean?"

Johnny prefaced his thoughts with a soft kiss to the base of Andre's neck, a gesture he had learned was more centering than sexual for Andre. 

"I'm not saying we should do this," Johnny said, "but maybe he has more on the line if we, um, play ball."

Andre released their hands and wheeled around to face Johnny. "You're kidding, right?"

"Honestly? I don't know. As it stands right now, he has knowledge, and he can hold that over us. He saw us, got it? But if he's an active participant, he loses that edge. He has something to lose if someone finds out—just like we do."

"So you're saying we should have a threesome with this guy to shut him up?"

"I'm just laying out the options," Johnny said. "I'm not advocating anything."

"We never should have done that in the locker room," Andre mumbled. He ran his hand across his forehead, covering his eyes.

Johnny reached over and gently pushed Andre's hand from his face. He covered it with his own until both hands bracketed bracketed Andre's chin, lifting it so they would see eye-to-eye.

"Hey," he said. "I couldn't help myself. Look at you." He ran his thumb along the sharp line of Andre's jaw. "That ass of yours has been my downfall since the first time I saw you. You know how hard it is not to stare at you in the locker room? You know how hot you are after you've won a game, when you're leaning up against the tiles in the shower, and letting the water run down your body? Do you know how badly I've wanted to fuck you in that room all season?"

Andre sighed. If Johnny wasn't mistaken, he saw his first glimpse of a smile since the game ended.

"You do have a way with words, Johnny."

Johnny grinned. "You didn't even let me get to the part about my tongue."

"Oh yes I did—and that's what got us in trouble," Andre said, growing quiet. "You think he'll tell anyone?"

"I really don't know," Johnny said. He drew close and pulled Andre in for a reassuring kiss. "It seems like he hardly talks to anyone outside of the ballpark. Maybe he won't. Practically, how could he? Who'd believe him, right? He's a minor league lifer, on his way down. This new guy who talks to no one suddenly spreads a rumor about the team captain? Who's going to believe him?"

" _My captain..._ " Andre said, drifting off.

"Andre, he tries this again? You tell him to piss off."

"Okay, captain." Andre said, his voice a whisper.

Johnny pulled back and looked at Andre. He ran his hands down his arms and back up again until they rested on Andre's shoulders. He squeezed, and grimaced.

"Look at you, running out of the clubhouse without even showering. Did you even ice down tonight?"

Andre shook his head, no.

"What were you thinking? You're going to ruin that arm of yours doing that. I'm going to run you a bath, put some Epsom salt in the tub for you, and then I'm gonna bag up some ice for your pitching arm to make sure it doesn't swell, okay? You just relax."

Andre eased into the hot bath, sinking until he was chest-deep in the briny water. He shut his eyes and exhaled, releasing the stress of the afternoon.

"Hey, here you go. Cheers."

Johnny knelt at the side of the tub: a sack of ice in one hand, two cold, open beer bottles in the other. Andre rested his elbow on the side of the tub, letting Johnny encase it in ice.

"You're going to kill your knees doing that," Andre said. He took a long drag from the bottle and set it in the corner of the tub.

"Just hand me the sponge, okay? I'm a professional. I do this every day," Johnny said, reaching for a bottle of soft soap. “Lean forward. Let me wash your back."

Johnny soaked the sponge in the water, coated it in soap, then ran it up and down Andre's back: a dip in the water on each pass, squeezed out each time he reached Andre's shoulders, a slow, sudsy waterfall cascading down his spine.

"Better?" he asked. "Relaxed?"

"My arm's numb," Andre said, deadpan.

"Good. Drink your beer." He shifted his attention to Andre's chest, circling his Pecs and dipping into the water below his stomach. He ran the sponge down Andre's dick, then dipped lower, circling his balls.

"You should be my trainer," Andre said, smiling, and shutting his eyes.

"You don't get this kind of service in the locker room," Johnny said. He kissed Andre’s cheek. "So, no threesome with Lolo?" Johnny's voice teased. "Three cocks? Six hands? Could be fun."

"As interesting as _six hands_ sounds, no. Not Lolo. Absolutely not."

"Hypothetically, though, it is kind of hot," Johnny said, grinning.

"Hypothetically."

"You ever have one?" Johnny asked. He let the sponge drift off, but kept his hand under the water, slowly stroking Andre hard. "You ever have a threesome?"

Andre shook his head slowly. "No."

"Ever think about it? He nuzzled behind Andre's ear, his voice low.

"Of course."

Johnny ran his thumb down Andre's dick, lingering at the head, circling until he felt the pulse beneath the silky skin.

"How does it play out, when you think about it? Am I there?"

Andre closed his eyes and breathed deep.

"Of course," he said.

"Who is the third?"

"I don't know. He's anonymous, I guess. Some hot guy. Athletic. Big."

"Big?" Johnny asked, raising an eyebrow.

Andre opened an eye, just briefly, shooting Johnny a knowing smile. "Not as big as you."

Johnny grinned, satisfied. He didn't expect Andre to fill in the details, but the bath relaxed him to the point that he began to fill in the details of his fantasy. "So, you're thinking two dicks? Doubling up?"

"Noooooooo. No. Nope. You're quite enough, thank you. I want to be able to walk the next day. Mostly, I think about the touching. Hands all over me. My chest, my back, my legs. And mouths. Mouths, of course."

"Of course," Johnny said. He returned to the slow, methodical stroke, each time, ending with a twist, just the way Andre liked it. With each pass, he could see Andre's grip on the side of the tub tighten, his hands tense, his chest shudder.

"I'd want him to blow me while you open me up with your tongue. Then you grip my hips and take me hard while I fuck our mystery man's mouth. And he's grabbing my ass..."

"Greedy."

"It's _my_ fantasy, Johnny."

"Lolo sounds obliging," Johnny said, a hint of mischief to his voice.

"I said no."

Johnny was enjoying himself now, turning it into a game. The wave of anxiety had finally washed past Andre. Between the hot bath and the cold beer, Andre had allowed himself to be taken apart by Johnny's hand, stroke by precise stroke. Until, of course, Johnny mentioned Lolo Martinez. He navigated the subject carefully, dropping the name just enough to get a rise out of Andre, then returned to the blissful pull, twist, slide of his hand.

"He is kind of hot. His body? That ass? That smooth, dark skin?" Johnny said.

Andre opened his eyes.

"You got a thing for that, huh?"

"Nah, I just got a thing for you." He sucked at Andre's ear lobe, pulling it between his teeth.

"Am I your first brother?"

"First _relationship..._ " Johnny said, drifting back to Andre's neck.

"But not your first fuck?"

"Mmm, no. But the best, definitely the best." Johnny dotted his words with kisses, tasting Andre's skin. "Besides, _Mr_. _Stanford With Honors,_ I don't exactly see you as a _Brother."_

Andre sat up in the tub, knocking the ice from his arm, his back stiffening. He turned to look Johnny in the eye.

"See this skin? This body? This face? It grew up in South L.A. It went to Stanford on an _academic_ scholarship, and it earned its way out."

"I know," Johnny said, his voice soft, apologetic. His hand stopped, and rested on Andre's abdomen.

"You know what it's like to be gay in South L.A.?"

Johnny shook his head.

"You don't want to. And if being gay is enough to get a beat down in my old neighborhood, liking a white boy could just about get you killed. You know why I don't talk about this? Because it's not _just_ the career."

"You're out of there now, Andre."

"I can have a big contract, and a big arm, and a big degree. I can even have a big vocabulary, but I will always carry a part of that place with me. Always."

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't be." Andre reached for Johnny's hand, and squeezed tight. "Just know me. Understand me, okay? Understand why this is important to me."

Johnny bit his lip, and nodded.

"And a threesome's no joke, okay? I settle for no one less than Idris Elba, got that? Otherwise, I share you with no one."

"Got that," Johnny said. "Idris is your hall pass."

"For a threesome."

"Yes, for a threesome," Johnny said. He looked down, and then raised his eyes to Andre. "I kind of ruined the mood, huh?"

Andre chuckled. He placed his hands on either side of the tub and pushed himself up to his feet.

"Dry me off and take me to bed."

 

* * *

 

 

   


	18. Kama Seusstra, Part Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half of this week's post. Thanks for your patience while I sort out the work/fic time balance. Next Sunday, one segment, not two, so that each story can conclude on Week Eleven. 
> 
> And I will reluctantly put a warning. And I say "reluctantly" because I do not believe in warnings. I write fic like I read books—without someone holding my hand. If I don't like it, I put it down. However, that said, the conventions of fan fiction are somewhat different than that for literature, so I will say that in this chapter, Kurt tries to move on. Take that as you will and don't read it if you don't like a realistic depiction of someone trying to move on with their sex life.   
>  

**February**

The air was crisp by Southern California standards. Fresh snow laced the San Gabriel Mountains and a stiff breeze made it feel like winter had finally, briefly, arrived in Los Angeles. 

Kurt would never admit it to his East Coast colleagues, but 54 degrees in a breezy Rancho Cucamonga ballpark felt a lot like 30-something degrees in New York City.

He bundled up against the chill in a luxury box—if you could call Formica countertops and vinyl office chairs "luxury"—in the small California League ballpark that was standing in for a summer day at Indianapolis' Victory Field for the first week of shooting _Out at Home._ If not for the temperature, it could have easily been mistaken for summer. The skies were a vivid shade of blue, and the smell of jasmine and orange blossom filled the air.

The story had been green-lighted for premium cable and fast tracked into production so that the television show could premier at a time when the producers expected that both Kurt and his book would still be hot.

It turned out that in his world, a little sex scandal was a bonus. It had been dizzying, these past few months, a rush of more—more demand for his work, for his time, for his presence.

It was also lonely as hell.

Kurt leaned forward on the countertop that separated him from the rest of the stadium. Just below, locals who were being paid in food to watch the tedious stop-start action of filing a mock baseball game were crowded into one section of the ballpark, making it appear full.They would be moved later, when the cameras needed to focus on a different part of the diamond.

On the field, a crowd of actors and baseball players from a local college stretched and milled about in the uniforms of two fictional minor league teams. The production had not been able to secure the rights to use their real names, but decided to keep the setting in Indianapolis.

None of it felt real, or little of it, at least. Everyone seemed to want a part of him. He suspected that few had his best interests in mind. There were two people he trusted for complete honesty: Santana and Jane, the assistant he almost didn't hire. Truthfully, there were three people he trusted completely, but one was no longer a part of his life.

Over the past six months, Jane had become Kurt's rock. Her particular brand of boundless enthusiasm grated his nerves in the early days, but as he came to know her, he saw her other, irreplaceable qualities. She was sharp, compassionate, and intuitive. She knew when to prod for information. She knew when to stop. She understood that sometimes, Kurt needed space and silence to battle his personal demons. She also had a sense for when he needed an open ear.

Like Santana, Jane just _got_ him. Unlike Santana, she was also impossibly nice about it. So many times, he had wondered what he would do without her, which might explain why he decided to bring her along to the West Coast for the shoot. And though he admitted it to no one, it is also because she was his safety net, his shield against Santana's brutal style of honesty.

He had given her the keys to the rental car and sent her on errands with one specific instruction. "Go, have fun."

Santana had become oddly protective of him. He suspected that she was guarding her cash cow, but he also knew that there was a strange, undefinable love in her sometimes harsh actions. Lately, she had taken to accompanying him on business trips. Accompanying was too bland a word, he thought. It struck him more as supervising, or chaperoning, but by the habitually drunk uncle who is entertaining and fascinating and lets you push right up against the line until you start to cross it, then sobers up and reels you back in.

He wasn't entirely sure what to make of her behavior. It seemed protective at first, shielding him from the glare of strobe lights and the harsh, amplified reality of gossip columns that had it right, but were oh so wrong. As it became clear that the stories had actually _boosted_ his career, it evolved into something else.

By Christmas, she had moved from protective to critical, trying to "whup that ass into shape" and telling him to get on with his life. He had been drifting through work and through life, she complained. The storm had passed, and it was time to sail.

He tried. He put on a happy face and accepted a handful of holiday party invitations, then attended a few more that Jane had accepted behind his back. And at each party, with colleagues and friends and hangers-on, he would nod and smile and nurse his cranberry-vodka cocktail long enough to say he had made an appearance, networked appropriately, and left for the comfort of his couch and his sweatpants.

He had received a cursory Christmas card, a best wishes sentiment that could have been written by an assistant, though the telltale XO told him that it had not. He responded in kind, his card to Blaine signed off with love.

They hadn't talked. They agreed it was for the best. And though he wondered if that card might reopen the door to communication, it did not.

It was as if Blaine had been erased. The man who had been seen _everywhere_ , wanted by _everyone,_ and interviewed by anyone that mattered, but was Kurt's and _only_ Kurt's had disappeared from view after that last, wrenching night.

The entertainment trades had reported on Blaine's movie. It had stalled, briefly, but appeared to get slowly back on track after the holidays. Kurt had seen a few of the early Brooks Brothers ads, but they had faded away as, occasionally appearing in the Style Section as part of a larger campaign. He'd stopped by a Brooks Brothers store one day, and the ties were available, but without the elaborate campaign that had once been visualized. He bought one, a red and navy stripe with yellow accents. It was traditional with subtle snap of fashion and reminded him of the man who was no longer in his life.

He asked Santana about sales figures for _The Brave Little Bow Tie_ one day, not that it was any of his business, but he wanted to know if the gossip magazines had cut into Blaine's sales. They had dipped—no, plummeted—originally, she said, but showed signs of recovery during the holiday season. And as far as she knew, he hadn't actually lost any contracts. He just wasn't promoting them.

Kurt thought about calling a few times, or texting, or sitting down and writing an old-fashioned letter, something he suspected Blaine would appreciate. It usually happened after a lonely night, when he'd had too much time and perhaps too much alcohol to focus on anything other than what he had lost.

For much too long, he had his head stuck in that space, dwelling on that last night in Blaine's hotel room. He should have left. They had already broken up. It was over. But he couldn't leave that room as long as Blaine was in it.

Sometimes he would get off to the memory of it, the slow and silent final hours of lovemaking in a New York hotel room. It had been the antithesis of their first, frantic night. Each touch lingered; each kiss unfurled from its first, gentle breath to open-mouthed desperation.

Through it all, they said nothing, but Blaine's reverential touch, fingers tracing a line from jaw to neck to chest; skimming, dipping, gripping until Kurt was lost in a moment of light and sweat and pulsing rhythms that he couldn't erase, no matter how hard he tried.

And as he sat in the chill of the stark suite of a minor league ballpark, losing himself in the memory yet again, he told himself that it had to stop.

*  * *

The month before, Santana made it clear that she'd had enough. Television's reimagined  _Out at Home_ had been cast, and was about to start shooting, and he was expected to play at least a minimal role in its early production. She booked his ticket, and then booked on for Jane. It was time to be involved, not just present, she said.

They would spend six days shooting a season's worth of exteriors and the action of the ballgames with a willing and cheap local population able to fill the stadium each day. They would have to shoot around the mountains—a green screen would replace Mount Baldy with the Indianapolis cityscape—but the stadium was close enough to Los Angeles to make the weeklong shoot manageable before they headed in to the studio.

Kurt's team agreed to the toning down of the content, somewhat, in the range that Blaine had once suggested for the story. There would be sex, to be sure, and its new home on cable would allow it plenty of latitude, but it wouldn't be as explicit as the source material. And Kurt was good with that, because for better or for worse, more people would ultimately know him for a television series than would be able to name the author of the books it was based on. He wanted an image that was adult, that pushed some boundaries. But he wasn't looking to be called The Prince of Porn, not ever again.

Not that it mattered any more.

Technically, Kurt had producer credit on the project. Realistically, he was a visitor, watching actors and extras in uniforms for two fictional ball clubs stretch and warm up.

He felt a hand press into either shoulder, a face tuck itself along his check.

"Get your ass out off that chair and get down there and mingle, Hummel."

Santana had arrived, along with her special brand of take-no-prisoners love. "They're not going to have a clue who you are at this rate. And have you seen the selection of man meat down there?"

Kurt turned to face her and arched a cynical brow in disgust, and greeting.

"What? Just because I don't partake doesn't mean I don't appreciate," she said. She pecked his cheek and pulled up a chair. "Seriously, you're not here to hide in the press box."

"This isn't the press box," Kurt said. "This is a luxury suite."

"You're kidding."

"The difference is, the luxury suite gets cable," he said, pointing to the TV. "Also, mini fridge."

"Not exactly Yankee Stadium."

"Not supposed to be," Kurt said.

Santana reached for his hand, and pulled it up to rest underneath her chin. "Now just look at all those baby ball players down there. And think how many of them would like to meet the producer."

"I'm just the creator, and just barely that," Kurt said.

"Have you seen the guy who plays the catcher?"

Had he ever. Kurt had been given the opportunity to provide feedback on the actors they were considering casting as the leads, Andre and Johnny. And Taylor Hamilton may have been drafted from Broadway for the role, but he fit the bill as the broad-shouldered catcher Kurt had envisioned while writing _Out at Home._

 _Swarthy,_ Kurt thought.

Tall and dark-eyed with an unruly mop of black hair, Taylor looked every inch the professional athlete. He wore a five o'clock shadow seemingly twenty-four hours a day and had an easy smile that engaged people instantly.

And it had gotten under Kurt's skin, because it was clear from the moment they met that Taylor Hamilton was a taller, somewhat more rugged Blaine Anderson.

"He's gay, you know. And available."

"I thought I was here on business."

Santana stood up, not releasing his hand. "Get on your feet," she said. "You're coming with me."

"Don't..."

"It's time for the creator to meet the cast and crew."

" _Santana..._ "

She held the door to the suite open for him, and with an exaggerated bow ushered him out. then walked arm-in-arm, curled into his side, as they made their way to the field.

"It's been months, Kurt. It's time to move on."

*  * *

Taylor was warm, and engaging, and unfairly handsome. He shook Kurt's hand and covered it with his own, holding on for an extra beat as he told Kurt that he was a longtime fan, and had been subscribing to the _Out at Home_ serial for over a year.

Being cast as Johnny was a "dream come true," he said. He wondered if Kurt might have time to discuss characterization. Maybe over coffee. Or drinks. Or dinner.

And for just a second, just a moment before he said "yes," Kurt felt like the wind had been knocked out of him.

The schedule on location didn't allow for much free time, particularly for the series' stars, but they found the time to close out the hotel bar two nights later. As promised, they talked shop for a while, Kurt explaining how he pictured Johnny, and Taylor absorbing it.

But they shifted gears abruptly, talking about their backgrounds and favorite movies and their impressions of Hollywood. It became clear, quickly, that Taylor was far less interested in characterization than he was in Kurt Hummel.

"We wrap tomorrow, and Sunday's free. I was thinking maybe, dinner?" he asked. "I'm a pretty decent cook, and it's a helluva sunset from my deck. What do you say?"

Kurt bit his lip, and shook his head, and did his best to put thoughts of the past behind him.

* * *

Taylor didn't lie. He cooked, beautifully, a meal of pork loin and winter vegetables, and opened a bottle of wine, and then opened another when they finished the first. They skipped the deck and sat by the fire place in the living room, where they could look out a wall of windows at the setting sun as it was replaced by the city lights and inch closer together as the conversation slowed.

And when Taylor leaned in, Kurt welcomed the kiss with more ease than he had expected. It may have been the wine, or maybe the hillside setting, but he rolled in to Taylor's embrace and deepened the kiss with an open, wanting mouth.

_It's just a make out. I need this. I'm due. It's time._

Kurt shut his eyes and his mind, and let Taylor turn their bodies until Kurt was on his back.

It was faster than he expected, or thought he wanted, but Kurt got lost to the sensations: the weight of a body on his chest, the mouth on his neck, the hand drifting to his hip.

"Can I blow you? Say yes."

Kurt gasped. His spine stiffened, just for a moment. As he felt Taylor's press against crotch, he decided it was time. He rolled his hips up, pushing himself firmly into Taylor's grasp.

"Okay," he said, his voice hushed. "Yes."

Kurt settled back into the couch, and gave Taylor room to unlatch his belt, pull down his zipper, pull out his cock, fist it briefly before enveloping it in his mouth.

The sensations overwhelmed him. Kurt opened his mouth to breath, to try to control the rapid tightening in his balls. The sensation was too much, it built too fast, and Kurt was calling out his name before he had a chance to warn that this was going to end, rapidly.

In a panting rush, it was over moments after it started.

"Shit. Oh god, I'm sorry," Kurt murmured.

Taylor pushed himself up and off Kurt, supporting his weight with his hands.

"I know I'm not supposed to bring this up, but..."

"I'm sorry. That doesn't usually happen. It's been awhile..."

Taylor pushed himself off the couch and stood, giving Kurt room to sit up.

"That's not what I'm talking about. You know, they warned us not to talk about this, but what am I supposed to do when you're calling out his name when I have your dick in my mouth?"

Kurt looked up at Taylor, confused. "What?"

"You called me 'Blaine'."

 

* * *

 


	19. Kama Seusstra, Part Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a one-segment week in order to set up endings for all three stories next week. Thanks as always to iconicklaine for giving this a quick once-over.
> 
>  
> 
> * * * * *

"I could have gotten a car service."

Kurt hoisted his suitcase into the trunk of Jane's Toyota. She was double-parked having nothing of it.

"But I have a car," she said.

"And you live in Jersey. I'm flying out of JFK."

"Get in," she said, slamming the trunk shut. "First, this gives me a chance to go over everything before you leave. Second, by having me drive you're forced to leave at a reasonable time instead of cutting it as close as you usually do. How many times have I had to rebook a flight you missed, hmm? And third, I want to, so _get in the car_."

Even behind the wheel, careening in and out of lanes headed toward the tunnel, Jane rattled through her to-dos as if scratching them off a checklist.

"You have dinner on Tuesday with the S&S execs and European distributors."

She turned the wheel hard right, and slammed on the brakes to avoid a cab.

"Wednesday morning, the Channel Four folks are flying in for a morning meet-and-greet."

The lane wasn't moving. She swore under her breath, and Kurt wasn't sure whether to laugh or scream.

"Got it—and I am shocked, _shocked_ Miss Hayward, to hear you swear."

"I did no such thing," she said, diving back into her original lane. "Okay, Thursday is your panel, 10 a.m. sharp."

"Yes, you added it to my iCal and its printed out in the travel folio you made. I won't forget." Kurt shook his head. He knew that a cab or a Town Car would have resulted in a similar ride, but had come to the conclusion that Jane had added an element of entertainment. He just wasn't sure they would survive.

"Now remember, you're on your own this week. Don't get into trouble." She glanced over at him and winked. "I know about you and book fairs."

"Funny."

This had been the first major trip in months where he didn't feel supervised, where Santana hadn't found an excuse to tag along. They seemed to think they had his best interests at heart.

"I'm grateful that my friends finally seem to think of me as a responsible adult who doesn't need a chaperone."

"She's just looking out for you. She's there because she cares, Kurt."

"And you're in on it," he said, harrumphing his words.

The traffic and the conversation had come to a dead stop. Jane tapped her fingers on the wheel, changed the radio stations a couple of times, and finally shut it off altogether.

"Kurt, try to carve out some time for yourself. Have fun. Have a fling. Do something that has nothing to do with the book or the show. It's time to break out of your rut."

He gave her a side-eye, but no response. Discussing his sex life was not part of the job description, even if Jane had become more friend than employee.

"You've buried yourself in work, and while that's good because it means I have a steady job, it's bad for you. You need to get out there again."

"I'm just taking a break. I've been busy."

The airport in sight, Jane pealed into the departure lanes.

"This isn't you not having time to meet people. This is you choosing not to meet people," she said. She eyed an opening near the Luftansa gate and dove for it. "You've got a light itinerary. Promise me you'll make the best of it?"

He leaned over and kissed her cheek before letting himself out of the car.

"I'll try."

 

* * *

He promised himself he'd catch some sleep on the overnight flight—a light supper and maybe a movie before nodding off so he could land rested and reasonably relaxed in Frankfurt the next morning.

Thanks to Jane, that wasn't going to happen. The drive to the airport rattled him, and not just because of Jane's aggressive driving. She had zeroed in on a soft spot that he had carefully, successfully protected since the week that he visited the _Out at Home_ shoot.

He thought he was over it, or ready to be over it, but his aborted effort to move on with Taylor quickly proved otherwise. He shouldn't have messed with a cast member. He now kept a distance from the show, weighing in only when necessary by phone or email.

It took some time, but work settled him, got him back into a regimented groove that left him comfortable, if not outright happy.

The flight attendant stopped by his seat and turned on his overhead light. "Here you go. We're about to shut off the cabin lights." She asked him if he wanted a drink.

"Vodka would be a blessing," he said.

Nowhere close to tired, he pulled out his laptop to work on his comments for his appearance at the Frankfurt Book Fair. He scanned his files: _0514BEA._

He hadn't looked at the speech he had thrown together for that first appearance at Book Expo America since the day he shared the stage with Blaine in front of a couple thousand librarians, book buyers and publishing industry executives.

He clocked on the file and began to read. The original text in no way resembled what he'd wound up saying that day. He had veered off course, hard, the inevitable conclusion to something that had started hours before in an airy hotel room overlooking the High Line.

His text was a reasoned discourse on the importance of web-based authors in a changing landscape of publishing. It became an improvised rant about tolerance.

It ended with a love story.

"Here you go, dear," the flight attendant said, handing him a glass of cranberry juice and a tiny bottle of vodka. "Consider yourself blessed."

Kurt took a long, slow slurp of his drink and closed the document, then opened the draft of the speech he was to give later in the week.

It was a reasoned discourse on how the web was the new frontier for emerging authors.

He deleted it, and leaned back in his seat, listening to the drone of the 747's engines and staring at the ceiling for inspiration.

 

* * *

Kurt spent his first two days in Frankfurt in a daze, going where he was told to be when he needed to be there, but little more. He hadn't even looked at the convention agenda Jane had included in his travel materials. He wasn't in a mood to listen to self-congratulatory authors drone on about how they had accomplished something new and cutting edge— _A new eBook platform!! An edgy romance! A brave, unvarnished character!_ _—_ when he was fully convinced it had all been said and done before.

He made good on his promise to do something, grabbing a seat on a tour bus and seeing the city—though that clearly wasn't what Jane had in mind.

And when it came time to give his presentation, he veered off topic from the subject he had submitted for the agenda.

"I'm apparently supposed to talk about the digital age, and the web opening doors to new writers or some such thing, but seriously? If you're in the book business, you've heard that all before, haven't you? So I was on the flight from New York the other day looking over the speech I was going to give and I thought, 'Screw it. Maybe it's time to talk from the heart.' So here I am, without a speech, but with a whole lot of heart to share with you."

"As I've been wandering around this week, I've been thinking a lot about inspiration. I've heard a lot of people talk about new things— _amazing things_ _—_ things that are supposed to change the way we tell stories. And that's great, but each time I heard about these new and amazing things in the publishing world, I thought about the stories we tell, and why we tell them, and what _inspires_ us to tell them."

"Some writers are inspired to entertain. Others may be passing along knowledge, something we didn't know before."

"When I got into this business a couple of years ago, when people started to notice my work, a lot was made of the subject matter. Sometimes, it overwhelmed the story itself, because of the titillation factor of erotica. They all wanted to talk about the sex, but hardly anyone wanted to talk about the characters, or the story. It was just porn, from some guy on the web."

"But then one day, somebody told me that _Out at Home_ wasn't about the sex, that it was a romance, a love story. That reader? He got it right. That reader understood me. And now that I'm working on something new, I keep thinking about that moment, and that reader, and that's my inspiration—connecting with someone, and that fleeting moment when you know that someone understands you and who you are, whether it's as a writer, or a friend, or a colleague, or a lover."

"Every book out on that exhibition floor has some sort of inspiration behind it. And you shouldn't be fooled by the cover, or the fancy marketing blitz designed to make it appeal to this demographic or that. Instead, take the time to really _know_ the book that you're reading. Get a feel for the writer's inspiration, for the heart of that book. Because it doesn't matter whether it's a romance, or a biography, or a children's book—any book worth its salt was written by someone who dug deep and found their inspiration to write it, to try and connect with someone, and all the newfangled innovations of the world will never change that simple truth at the heart of a good book."

"As authors, we need to follow our hearts. In turn, as readers I urge you when you talk about that book to try to remember the context that the writer set out for you. Honor that, and you honor the very history of publishing, and its future."

 

* * *

Kurt was circled by well wishers and autograph seekers the moment he stepped down from the stage, but the public relations team for the convention had already made arrangements for him to be interviewed for the book fair's closed circuit television broadacst on the other end of the convention hall.

They escorted him past out of the auditorium and through the exhibits, to a makeshift, glassed-in studio from which his interview would be live streamed on screens throughout the convention.

It was Kurt's first real opportunity to look around the exhibits: from the elaborate staging of major publishing houses to the modest tables of small indie booksellers, to the overhead banners advertising new books and author meet and greets. Long lines of conventioneers snaked along some of the aisles waiting for book signings by bestselling authors.

When they arrived at the studio, Kurt picked up a copy of the book fair agenda for the first time that week, thumbing through it as a make-up artist dusted powder across his face. Midway through the manual he stopped and looked up, scanning the enormous room, getting the attention of a member of the PR team.

"Is there something I can get you?" she asked.

"Do you know how I can get a ticket for a signing?"

"Which book do you want? I can just go get it and have them sign it."

"No. I want to go through the line. How do I get a ticket?"

"Which author?" she asked.

Kurt pointed to the directory.

"This one."

 

* * *


	20. Out at Home, Episode Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've had your seventh inning stretch. You've sung "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." It's time to bring in the closer.
> 
> I'll be wrapping each segment of Kama Seusstra: KS, The Brave Little Bow Tie and Out at Home, today—starting with Out at Home. I want to say up front that in the spirit of an ongoing serial, as well as in life, I've made choices about how to conclude the stories that doesn't necessarily involve gift wrap and bows.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read along. This very well may be my last multi-chapter fic, at least for the foreseeable future, so I wanted you to know how grateful I am for your reads, your encouraging words, and for the camaraderie I've found with the kind hearts of the Klaine community. I hope to sneak in a one shot here and there, but it's time to buckle myself in for a busy season at work and to begin writing Novel Number Two. Thanks as always to iconicklaine for helping me keep my head on straight during all of this.
> 
> \- Girlie

The meeting was short, perfunctory—just like the dozens of manager's office sessions the team had seen over the season, all resulting in a player leaving. Usually, they were on their way down: to AA or A-ball, sometimes traded to another team, occasionally ending a fledgling career.

For Andre Jones, it ended with a handshake and a hug, with congratulations from his teammates, some shaken and sprayed bottles of beer, and the uncomfortable sight of Johnny Corello walking out of the clubhouse.

The Pirates called Andre up in advance of the September roster expansion when their number three pitcher in the five-man rotation suffered a season and possibly career-ending shoulder injury in a game against the Mets. Nelson Willis' rotator cuff surgery was Andre Jones' opportunity.

It was far from unexpected. The baseball world knew that Andre had been ready for the bigs since college, when he was first drafted by the Reds, and was expected to become a permanent fixture in the Pirates' pitching staff after September call-ups.

It would be another two weeks before any other players for the Indianapolis Indians would know if they had made the cut when the big league teams expanded their rosters from 25 to 40 men, though it was assumed that Johnny Corello and his International League-leading .345 batting average would be among them.

What was far less certain was where Johnny would land after the Pirates ended their season.

 

*  * *

"You left."

Johnny was in the bedroom when Andre walked through the door, standing at the closet, pulling out Andre's clothes.

"They couldn't have given you much time to report. I'm just trying to get organized for you," he said. He pulled out two dress shirts, and a pair of jeans, and set them on a side chair. A hand reached out and grabbed his arm as he headed back to the closet.

"Stop."

Andre pulled Johnny's hand to his chest, wrapping it in his hands.

"We knew this was going to happen," he said. "And you'll be there in a couple of weeks."

"For a month," Johnny said. "Then what?"

"Then we have the off season."

Johnny glared. "I wasn't talking short-term."

Andre pulled him by the hand to the bed, and patted the mattress. "Sit."

He sat by Johnny's side, holding his hand. His words were measured, quiet.

"I thought we were ready for this."

"Even if I get called up..."

"You will," Andre said.

Johnny's eyes narrowed and jaw set. They'd had this conversation before—or parts of it—and the result was always the same: Johnny got angry, and then he got quiet. Each time, Andre swore that they'd figure something out, but they never did.

"After the season ends, I'm trade bait. They don't need me in Pittsburgh," Johnny said.

Andre couldn't argue the point. Johnny was right.

The starting catcher for the Pirates  was an All Star with three years left on his contract. His back-up was the preferred catcher of the team's top pitcher, and saw regular play because of it. The other two catchers both worked the bullpen—which the Pirates knew was a waste of Johnny Corello's talent—and marketability.

His power, batting average and baseball IQ were all attractive, but not enough for the Pirates to keep him. He was the future star they didn't need on the field, but could use to lure more pitching to the team, or to shore up a weak outfield.

Andre wrapped his arm around Johnny's shoulder, and reeled him in until their foreheads rested together.

"Neither one of us has any control over where we play, not yet," he said.

"Six years," Johnny said. His voice had the bitter edge of defeat.

"Five, after this season, then free agency," Andre said. "But we've got this, and the off-season. We have a few months."

"Not enough. Goddamn early reporting for pitchers and catchers."

"If we're in the same spring league..." Andre said, a futile attempt to brighten Johnny's spirits.

"If we're both in the Grapefruit League, then we'll also be in team housing—roommates."

Andre nestled two fingers underneath Johnny's chin, lifting until they were eye-to-eye. He pressed their lips together, but Johnny didn't respond right away. He sat bolt upright, stiff and stressed. Andre ran his hand up Johnny's spine, then down again, a slow, rhythmic repetition that gradually relaxed Johnny's body and calmed his nerves. When they pulled apart, Johnny rested his head on Andre's shoulder.

"Oh fuck, Andre, I'm sorry," he said. "This should be your day. I shouldn't have made it about me."

He traced Andre's collarbone with his lips, stopping at the base of his neck. "I'm so sorry."

He pushed until Andre's back was flush with the bed, dotting kisses up his neck, stopping at his mouth. He looked down, taking in Andre's face, bracketing it with his hands. "I don't want to lose you."

Andre simply nodded, then pulled Johnny into an open-mouthed kiss. He grabbed at the dense muscles of Johnny's back, pulling him in tight as he wrapped his leg around Johnny's thigh.

He could feel Johnny's pulse race, his breathe quicken, his cock grow hard beneath his touch. The rush of their bodies colliding hadn't diminished since that first time in an Omaha bar, and Andre doubted it would ever change.

Johnny's breath came in rapid beats that pulsed through his words.

 _"Andre... please... fuck... want you."_  

*  * *

They stretched out alongside each other, watching the light of a passing car shifting shadows across the ceiling. Johnny reached blindly for Andre's hand.

"When do you have to report?"

"I've got 48 hours. I won't be packing heavy." He gave Johnny's hand a squeeze, then turned his head to look him in the eye.

"Johnny, I want you to lay down the law with your agent. Make sure he advocates for you. Don't let yourself get sent just anywhere. You make sure he understand that you're a future All Star, and the market you end up in influences that—and his ten percent."

He rolled on to his side and placed his hand over Johnny's heart. As he spoke, his fingers drifted, as if drawing a map of major league ballparks across Johnny's chest.

They went through both leagues, trying to identify the teams that needed Johnny's skills and the markets that could provide a friendly environment for him at home.

"What about Philly?" Johnny asked. "We'd be in the same league, the same state."

"They don't need a catcher," Andre replied.

"San Francisco," Johnny said.

"Of course, and the A's, across the Bay. "Good cities, and the A's could use better catching."

"But then I'd be in the American League," Johnny said. "We'd never see each other during the season."

Andre chose a spot dead center on Johnny's chest, leaned in, and kissed it. He lingered there, quiet in thought.

"There's New York, but the media's crazy. I don't think it's for you.... Hmm. There's LA. The Dodgers, Johnny. You'd like it there, and they could use a new catcher. Ogden's gonna be hanging it up soon. They're going to need a catcher, one who can hit."

Andre looked up, into Johnny's eyes.

"You try for LA, Johnny. Have your agent talk you up to them. You get yourself traded there."

The sounds of the night, usually just a murmur of background noise, filled the room: a dog barking, the boom of a stereo in a passing car, a siren in the distance.

"What about us?" Johnny said.

"I want us to be together too," Andre said. "But right now? Neither of us has any control over that."

Andre wrapped himself in Johnny's arms, settling in to the stillness of the night.

It was in these still, quiet moments that he was most at peace, in wonder about how a one-night stand with a feared opponent could have turned to something that had him reconsidering his life, his priorities.

How he could have ended up in love.

He wanted a life with this man, but from an early age, his life had been designed, built and set on a trajectory for success in the world of sports. There would be more, later. But to build a life beyond his baseball career meant he first had to have that career.

"Johnny?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

"Your timing is..."

"I love you, Johnny. I want you to understand that. I want you to know that." Andre took a breath, a moment to gather strength to say what he knew had to be said. "I have no intention of not loving you."

"Okay," Johnny said. He sounded wary of what would come next.

"We've got about five months together before spring. Let's find a place, not Indianapolis. Not Pittsburgh. Some place where people don't know us. Let's have that time for us."

"Okay," Johnny said again.

"When the season starts, I think we both know that it's going to be difficult..."

"Impossible," Johnny said.

"Yeah, impossible," Andre said. His voice dipped, softened to little more than a whisper. "I know we have the phone or Skype, but is that going to be enough? Eight months, Johnny. I can't ask you to hang on for eight months."

"What are you saying?"

"Do you love me, Johnny?"

"You know I do."

They had four months together, but Andre breathed in Johnny Corello as if it was the last time.

"I don't want to lose you, but I don't want to hold you back, either. It's too long a stretch, and neither of us know where we're going to be," he said.

"Are you breaking up with me?"

"No, no. I don't want that. I hope some day we're both in a position that if we still want this, we can talk about the future together. But until then, we've got to be practical. We'll have eight months out of the year when we'll probably be separated. I don't want anyone else, but it's an impossible standard to hold someone to when you're apart most of the year."

"You're saying you want to fuck other people."

Andre held on to Johnny. He wasn't about to let him roll away, or run away.

"I'm saying I want you. I'm also saying we need to be realistic about this. Johnny, I hope that at the end of next season we go back to our place—wherever that is—and pick up where we left off. That's what I want. But I'm also saying I'll understand if something happens between now and then. At the end of the season, we can reassess, make sure we're still good, and take those four months if that's what we both want."                                                            

"You mean so long as there isn't anyone else," Johnny said.

"I think it's our best chance."

 # # #


	21. Kama Seusstra, Part Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to iconicklaine for the read-throughs and to Iloveweasleys for some helpful hints about Frankfurt. Some day, I hope to check it out in person.

He was probably 300 deep into the line, near the end, when an assistant for Rattite Publishing exchanged his ticket for an advance copy of _Freefall_ , and instructions to write his name on the card and to hold the book open to the title page for signing.

"You got in right under the wire," she said. "We're cutting off the line pretty soon."             

The cover was sleek, elegant and foreboding—black lettering set against a stormy crimson sky. The back cover included a marketing information box, book summary, and the briefest of author bios.

There was no photograph. But there was no mistaking who it was.

_BD Anderson is a former public relations executive and published author of children's books. This is his first novel for Rattite Publishing._

He inched up to the Rattite booth. Ahead, he could see a raised platform, shock of dark hair, a cheerful face chatting amiably with conventioneers as he signed their books.

He was five back from the platform when Kurt felt a chill race down his spine.

There were two guests to go when Blaine first glanced his way, looking back to the book he was signing, then up to Kurt again. He signed the next one quietly, and politely agreed to pose for a picture, glancing once more at Kurt before focusing on the smartphone pointed his way.

Kurt stepped up to the signing station and held out his book for Blaine to sign.

"I'm a big fan, Mr. Anderson."

Blaine's face lit up—his polite facade erupting into a smile that radiated warmth and familiarity.

"Kurt."

"I almost didn't make it over here in time," Kurt said.

Blaine folded his arms on the table and leaned forward to draw closer. "You know you didn't need to stand in line."

"I wanted to. I didn't even know you were here. I didn't know about _this._ " Kurt tapped the book with his fingers. "Is this what you've been up to? You never said a thing."

Blaine nodded. "I went underground for awhile, I guess. I'd started it before... _everything ..._ and just kind of set it aside when the bow tie blew up. I decided to work on it again after..."

A Rattite rep walked up behind Blaine and whispered something in his ear, gesturing to the last of the line. He nodded, and looked annoyed.

"They're telling me to hurry it up. I saw you were here. I snuck in to see your panel. I wanted to let you know..."

The assistant set three books in front of him and gave him the eye.

"I wanted to see you," Blaine said, his voice low.

Kurt smiled, and nodded down toward the remains of the line.

"I think you need to sign my book."

Blaine looked down, seemed to grin to himself, and quickly scrawled on the page. He shut the book and handed it to Kurt, but didn't release it right away.

"It's good to see you, Kurt."

 

*  * *

 _Call me_ _—Blaine_

_Or call me Devon._

_Just call me._

Blaine wasn't sure he should have written that. Granted, Kurt sought him out, stood in line, even seemed borderline flirtatious. But he didn't say anything about wanting to see Blaine outside the safe confines of an autograph line.

Still, _Regards, Blaine_ was too generic.

 _Come back to me_ was too forward.

 _Call me_ seemed like a reasonable compromise, a simple dinner invitation, or drinks, a chance to catch up.

A chance.

But what guarantee did he have that Kurt was going to open the book right away, or act on it? Until that moment in the autograph line, they hadn't spoken in a year. Just because Kurt said hello didn't mean he wanted to spend time together, or be with him in any way that Blaine might have fantasized about, countless times over the past year.

But it had to. Why else would he take a chance on standing in line for a book by someone he had never heard of before?

Nearly an hour had passed with no call. Maybe he was busy. Maybe...

_Fuck it._

Blaine pulled his phone out of his satchel and called up the directory: Hummel. He sent a one word text: _Dinner?_

_* * *_

They met at The Mirador, an open and lively cafe that bustled with movement.

By the time Blaine arrived—late, thanks to some demanding Rattite publicists—he saw Kurt, already seated and fidgeting with the table service. He wanted to take a moment to watch him before he sat down and hoped that they could pick up—at least the conversation—where they left off.

He stood by the host station, taking in the sight: Kurt, professionally casual as always in trim jeans and a tailored vest, his hair a bit taller, more styled than it had once been.

Kurt looked up and waved, ending the moment.

"You look a little lost," he said, standing as Blaine approached the table.

Blaine reached out to greet him with a handshake, then thought the better of it and gave him a brief hug.

"Sorry I'm late," he said.

They ordered beer and tapas to share, but the meal was little more than an excuse for a time and place to fill in the gaps of the past year. The restaurant buzzed around them, loud and full of life, but they settled in close and talked as if they were the only patrons in the room.

"So, a novel..." Kurt started. "This is a surprise. A pleasant surprise, but a surprise nonetheless."

"Children's books were sort of off the table for a while," Blaine said.

"Oh."

"That's not a bad thing, not really."

"You still have your contract, right? I didn't hear anything about it getting scrubbed."

"Yeah, it was touch and go for a while there. I thought Brooks Brothers was going to bail—and I don't think that would have bothered me much, to be honest. There was just so much happening..."

"I'm so sorry," Kurt said. "I feel responsible."

"Don't be. These things have a way of working themselves out."

It had bee rough at first, he said. The world closed in on him, the sponsors shied away from the children's author who had been at the center of what the gossip trade had labeled a sex scandal.

"Were we scandalous?" Kurt asked.

"Maybe that first night," Blaine said. He laughed, and ran his hand through his hair.

In the end, no one backed out of a contract, but much of the life that had moved so rapidly for Blaine had been put on hold, some of it long term. Rattite was no longer in a rush to publish _The Brave Little Bow Tie II._ The Brooks Brothers promo was scaled back, but never canceled. He continued to earn a cut of the proceeds. The movie development continued, at a somewhat slower pace for a while, but was now back on track.

"Then I pitched the novel. I told them I needed a break. It was half-done, and they let me shift gears. And here I am."

"There you are," Kurt said.

"It's good to be a professional adult again, even if it's just for a little while."

"And Bo? What's going to happen with the series?"

"It's still on. Book two is done. I signed off on Sam's art about a week ago. The pacing is just a little less intense than it was before. Rattite seems to think that the break is good for it. Sales are back up again. It's not the crazy of before, but it's recovering."

Blaine looked around the room, at the buzz of tourists, publicists, conventioneers. A year ago, he wouldn't have imagined sitting with Kurt in such an environment. But now that they weren't together and had lives that had taken them in different directions, he sat quietly at ease with his former lover as Kurt ate, and laughed, and looked wistfully off to some distant spot that seemed to be just over Blaine's shoulder.

"Why'd you break them up?" Blaine asked, snapping Kurt out of his thoughts.

"What?"

"You broke them up."

"Huh?"

"Johnny and Andre. Why did you break them up?"

 Kurt chuckled, shaking his head.

"Do you know how many people have asked me that?"

"And you never answer. I've paid attention. Why'd you do it?"

Blaine rested his chin in his hand. He had seen Kurt deflect the inevitable _But what about J'andre?_ questions with simple "Wait and see," but this was different. Kurt couldn't use that line and get away with it, not here, not now.

"What else could I do? That's where the story was headed. I didn't want them to separate, either, but they had no choice. Besides, did either of them say they were breaking up?"

Blaine reached across the table and took Kurt's hand.

"I had no choice," Kurt said. "I want them back together. I see them back together, when circumstances allow."

Blaine nodded. "I think they belong together."

"It's just sometimes you have to separate a couple. Sometimes, you have to test them. You have to let them work for it..."

"I've missed you, Kurt."

* * *

They spent much of the rest of the warm fall evening walking Berger Street, occasionally bumping shoulders as they strolled past bars and cafes. They cautiously dipped their toes into the conversation they had needed for close to a year.

"Is there anyone... are you seeing..."

"You know me better than that," Blaine said. "There's no one. I've been on a break. And you?"

"I...I tried," Kurt said. His fingers grazed Blaine's knuckles as they walked. "It wasn't right."

By the time they reached Kurt's hotel, they had promised each other not to be strangers, to continue the dialogue, wherever that may take them. The stood outside the doorman's station, each waiting for the next move. An invitation upstairs? A nightcap?

Instead, Blaine reached for Kurt's elbow, pulled him close, and kissed his cheek.

"I should go," he said.

"You headed back to Chicago now?" Kurt said.

"They want me to do a promo stop in London, then back to New York."

"Back to the Standard?" Kurt said with a wink.

"No."

"Found some place new?"

"Sort of," he said. "I live there now."

* * *


	22. The Brave Little Bow Tie, Part Five

The house was decorated, cheery and bright

With bows of holly and and twinkling lights.

The family readied their holiday fete

One day, the tree and all its trimmings,

The next for shopping for holiday gift givings.

During this time of hubbub and fuss,

Bo's time with the boy had undergone some cuts.

For there was one special day for which the boy could not wait.

The day to visit the Man in Red.

Santa! St. Nick! Oh, what a date!

Bo watched it all, from his corner with Ted,

The excitement, the joy running through his head.

He wished he could join in the holiday fun

To be a part of the boy's _bon temps._

The boy dressed up special for his visit with St. Nick,

But stopped short.

Something was missing. Something need to be done, quick!

They searched high and low,

But his clip-on tie could not be found.

With hands on her hips, Mother surveyed the room

'Til her eyes locked on Theodore, and his striped costume.

"Bo!" the boy cheered.

Mother untied Bo, and placed him 'round the boy's neck

Though bigger than needed,

Bo preened as Mother finished her loop-de-loop trek.

His candy cane stripes, of red and of white,

Tied elegantly in bow tie delight.

The boy smiled happily, his face bright with joy

Preparing his list for St. Nick.

And that moment, Bo knew it,

And smiled to himself

Because he knew, and maybe had all along,

"This is my home. This is where I belong."

 

# # #


	23. Kama Seusstra, Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who has taken the time to read along.

EPILOGUE:

Kurt settled in at his desk, opened his laptop, and confronted the messages he knew had piled up since Frankfurt: Groupons, come on's, hangers on, all.

There were follow ups from the Book Fair, dozens of emails and more than a hundred messages and submissions to his blog, still active and still used to communicate with his growing number of readers.

His eyes glazed over momentarily at the logjam. He leaned his head back, exhaled, and  pushed himself back from his desk.

_Not without a drink._  

He settled in with a cold Heineken and dug in, deleting the junk, vetting and responding to messages.

_Yes, I will tell you everything, Santana._

_No, I will not host a panel on best practices for porn writing._

_I really don't think I'm needed on the_ Out at Home _set. Can we discuss on a conference call instead?_

Then he saw it, labelled "submission."

It wasn't unusual for fans to send him links to _Out at Home_ fan art, fiction or crafts.

Many were forgettable. Some were disturbing. A few were actually pretty good. One or two, he saved. Most received some kind of response, often from Jane, even if it was just a few words.

But this one stood out.

_Subject: Submission from BoTieMeUp_.

Kurt stared at it for a moment. Who else could it be?

It had been nearly a week since the book signing, since a hopeful evening walk, since a light goodbye kiss to his cheek.

Since then, silence.

He clicked the link. The title brought a smile of familiarity and hope to his face. 

**_The Brave Little Chippendales Tie_ **

 

**# # #**


End file.
